True Hate and True Love
by Kates
Summary: Imagine: what if Little Red Riding Hood was an adventurous faery princess, and the Wolf, a dreaded Dark Lord? Step into the woods with me... (Rating is for intense situations/characters)
1. Authoress's Note and Prologue, Part I

Each story must have a beginning...

Each story must have an end...

True Hate and True Love

Book IV

Of the Travelers of Enchantment Series

Once upon a time – a long, long time ago, in a land far, far away: way across the ocean…

(For this is how a _most_ classic faery tale begins.)

_'There was once a sweet little girl who was loved by everyone.  As a present, the girl's grandmother made her a little riding hood of red velvet.  The cap pleased the girl so much that she always wore it and so she became known as Little Red Riding Hood._

_One day, her mother asked her to take a basket of cakes and wine to her grandmother…'_

And here, with Red's first step over the cottage thresh hold and out the door, onto the path to her grandmother's house, our adventure begins.  We know the story well – a little girl is off on an errand, and she meets a very personable but undeniably evil wolf that wants nothing more than to devour both the girl and her grandmother (which he does), and results in a huntsman saving the day and a lesson being learned.

But not all wolves always assume their furry lupine form, and not all Riding Hoods are wide-eyed children of six.  Wolves, heroines, grandmothers, huntsmen, and all take on a whole new form and role at the touch of a writer's hand, and forests can become the living reality of our own clandestine, tangled labyrinths of destinies – the future itself, if you will.  There is no limit to what can be done in fantasy, in fairy tales, where magic and imagination abound…

However, we will never know how our own faery tales will end or even where they will begin until we step over the thresh hold, out the cottage door, and onto the path.

So come with me now: follow Little Red Riding Hood and me into the forest…_step into the woods_…

– Prologue –

The Dark and the Light

Two Free-Verse Canticles:

As Recorded by the Bards of Suivallen

I. – The Dark Lord 

_Once, there was a Dark Lord:_

_Terrible and cruel,_

_Who ruled over the lands of evil_

_With a Hand of Iron;_

_Serving His Dark Queen_

_And her alone,_

_Plaguing each soul, each creature,_

_Realm and Kingdom alike_

_With His malice._

_Then: a war,_

_Evil against Good;_

_Faery, Elven warrior,_

_Vampyre, and mortal alike,_

_Joined hand-in-hand against him._

_A rebellion, a battle,_

_The greatest defeat – _

_And never more was the Dark Lord _

_Ever to be seen._

_But gone was not He…_

II. – The Prophecy and the Tragedy

_In the land of faery,_

_Where good and light dwelt,_

_Was a handsome young lord_

_And his fair lady wife._

_Diarnan he was called;_

_Lhanallis she,_

_Joy and peace in their home._

_A daughter was born to them,_

_And so wondrous fair was she,_

_That many came from far and near,_

_Present at her christening to be._

_The name of the goddess of light_

_They gave to this child:_

_Elowyn – golden, sea-lov'd,_

_As a rose pure and wild._

_But happy as their destinies _

_Should have become,_

_The Darkness invaded – _

_And none could escape._

_A prophecy was made,_

_Unable to be broken,_

_The evil Queen was struck_

_With Fear of this babe._

_For what the Fates had decreed,_

_None could deny…_

_Fire, havoc, mayhem, and blood:_

_Vile Skullex, ogre, goblin,_

_And insatiable demon-wolf,_

_The Queen of the dark lands_

_Commanding all._

_Diarnan fought valiant,_

_Lhanallis at his side;_

_Together they fought,_

_And together they died._

_But Elowyn, the babe,_

_Was spirited away,_

_By faery-lord Orandor _

_And three of his sons,_

_To live in a place _

_Where the Darkness could not find her._

_The prophecy remains, _

_Remembr'd in Orandor's mind – _

_One day, it would come,_

_To find she of whom it spoke…_

_For Elowyn the Fair, Elowyn the White,_

_The Gold, the Pure – The Light,_

_Is fated to share her destiny_

_With a Dark Companion…_

_And what the Fates have decreed,_

_None can gainsay._   


	2. Chapter One

– Part I –

The White Realm

Chapter One – 

Elowyn, Princess of Faeries

_Third month of the Spring Equinox, Avalennon – Year of Serenity_

_Dear Journal,_

_Year of Serenity my foot!  Whoever went and gave the years specific titles to describe their events must have been completely daft in the head, for this year has been anything _but_ serene, even if it is only in my eyes.  For, you see, this year, I – being the last child of the Lord Orandor and Lady Vahlada – have been cursed with a swarm of people who scurry all about me and wish to educate me in the ways of being a lady.  _

_I want nothing to do with this!  _

_They all tell me that being a lady means sitting still and going off on adventures only when there is a proper chaperone to escort you.  Preferably, this chaperone should be the handsome prince that you will eventually marry and have children with.  They tell me that being a lady means wearing those horrible contraptions that everyone's come to know as ' court clothing' and forsake archery, swordsmanship, and riding.  They say that now, since I am of age to leave my parents' nest, I must change my ways – indefinitely.  They want to pry me from the ancient history and legend tomes, from roaming through the wilds of the White Realm, so that I can be 'proper', at last._

_I am the daughter of Orandor Raven-Helm and Vahlada, the Lady of the Dawn, and I will not give up my so-called unseemly ways.  Long have I been given the freedom to sojourn as I please about my father's kingdom – long have I immersed myself in the mysteries and beauty of the woodlands.  There have been princesses like me before, and they were allowed to remain their true, unseemly selves!  Why must _I_ change?_

_And now there is no more time to think on this, thrice curse it all, with a plague from the deepest dredges of the castle moat!  For I hear the maid coming – Enabelle is her name – and she will most likely be making her way up here to once again try to cram me into another one of those silly, over-frumped gowns.  Well, I will simply _not_ have this, and so, dear journal of mine, I must get out_ before she gets _in__._

_Until I next set pen to paper,_

_Elowyn, Princess of Avalennon_

The faery handmaid who was the leader of the pair that had just come up the winding flight of steps that led up into the tower where the young Princess Elowyn laired gave a deep, long-suffering sigh and pushed open the door, preparing herself for the usual battle of wills.  But all that greeted the two was the sight of the sleekly upholstered, empty room, completely devoid of any life.  One of the seven gabled windows had been left wide open: a fresh breeze flowing in through it.  Enabelle stopped dead and sighed.  She had expected this.

Her companion, however, obviously hadn't.  As soon as she saw that no one was in the room, with the window had been left open, and the Princess Elowyn nowhere to be found, she clapped her hands to either side of her face and made a high-pitched, frightened little shriek.

"Oh, Enabelle!" she cried. "She's _gone!"_

Enabelle nodded sympathetically to this, if not dryly.  

"She's done it again."

The other maid crossed the room, going to the window, and looked out.  The adventuresome young princess must have either climbed down with another one of her specially-made enchanted ropes, or flown out, in order to make her escape.  

In any case, she was gone, and gone without a trace, but for that opened window.  Enabelle knew that it wasn't the first time that the princess had done something like this – she was well aware of Elowyn's aversion to the trammels of society and the expectations that the faery court had for her.  Enabelle, however, had been selected to serve as the princess's handmaid, and so even though she was aware of her charge's character and preferences, she had her duties to attend to.  

But Elowyn, in the past few months since the group of handmaids had undertaken the task of transforming her into a true royal debutante, had proven herself to be quite skillful at making their job extremely difficult.

So, as the other maid – Sharidyn – carried on and on, moaning about how the Lord and Lady would be _so perturbed at their daughter's disappearance, and then gabbling about what a little imp the Princess was, Enabelle simply sat down on the edge of the comfortable, rumpled four-posted canopy bed that sat next to the opened window.  At length, she looked out at the late afternoon sky that hung over Avalennon like a canvas stained in gold, tangerine, and ruby._

Somewhere, out under that sky, was the Princess Elowyn.

And no matter what anybody else wanted, she wasn't going to be wearing _any_ gown that her maids selected for her _today_.

*                       *                       *

Well, contrary to Enabelle's guess, Elowyn had_ not_ climbed out the window, although she _had_ brought along a length of that enchanted rope – and neither had she sprouted wings and flown off.  She had indeed escaped her tower-bedchamber by means of wings.  

Although they weren't _hers.  _

Years ago: around fifteen years ago, in fact, when Elowyn had been a precocious child of two, she had been given a birthday present of a beautiful, dun-coloured Pegasus stallion-colt.  It had been a great formality, she remembered, although the pictures that passed through her head on recollecting it were a bit hazy.  

What she _did know, from memory and from what she had been told, was that there had been a visit from a delegation of Elves from the Lands Beyond, and that they had brought along the strange, beautiful creature as a gift to the youngest daughter of the Lord and Lady of the White Realm.  Orpheus was his name, and he was a noble member of the winged Pegasus race, who dearly loved his young faery mistress and was fiercely loyal to her, and her alone.  _

Having a horse with wings had always been a plus.

Especially recently.

A scowl crossed Elowyn's pale, fair, young features, causing a slight line to form between her curving golden-brown brows as her sharp green eyes narrowed.  

She had always been given her freedom by her parents: by her beloved, wise, and noble father who seemed to know and understand everything about her, and by her beautiful, warm-hearted mother who loved her headstrong young daughter no matter what she did.  Elowyn had long been the much-lamented bane of the faery court, and there wasn't a single stuck-up courtier who hadn't felt the effects of one of the princess's well-timed pranks.  Where most maidens of her age enjoyed embroidery and teatime and dancing and make-up and gowns, Elowyn loved nothing but horseback riding, archery, swordplay, and adventuring in the woods outside of Avalennon.  History, legends, and the great literary works were her favorite reading material, and no one could get her to peruse a discourse on the hidden language of the fan for the life of them.

It wasn't that she was an untowardly rebellious child, or simply self-absorbed.  Nothing could be further from the truth – Orandor and Vahlada had taught her better than _that_.  Elowyn just simply found no pleasure in, and felt no love for, the lady-like ways.  And the more that society pushed and nagged at her to give in to its demands, the more elusive and unrestrained in her adventuring she became.

Today was an especially great release for her.  Scores of dancing-mistresses and embroidery tutors had once more been after her, from breakfast to the noontide meal, until she had become so exasperated that she had fled to the Tower of Lore – her father's personal retreat – and hidden there until it became quite apparent that her antagonists had given up the chase and disappeared to more enjoyable haunts.  Only then had she escaped back to her room, the tower of the seven gabled windows in the west wing of the castle.  

Now, driven from even _that_ refuge, she urged Orpheus from a gentle, clipping trot into a livelier canter, and the two of them escaped further into the thick forest.  

She had done this before, since she was nine.  And somehow, Orandor always seemed to know exactly where she was, and what she was doing and whether she was all right or not after she disappeared from the palace – like the time that she had run off from a dull calligraphy lesson, leaving her dozing tutor behind, and wound up lying in a jade-green kryyate dragon's cave with a broken ankle and the wits scared out of her.  Of course, her older brother, Gavin, had been the one to come and rescue her, along with their father, and he had given her a proper bad time of it on the way back.  But that had been a long time ago.  She was _much more experienced in the art of escaping civilization __now._

Straying but for a moment from her deep train of thought, Elowyn reined her mount in to a halt and gazed for a moment at her surroundings.  

In every which direction that she looked, as far as her faery-eyes could see, was nothing but the thick, vast forest of magic-tainted trees: towering above her in a sky of evergreen-scented boughs.  Only the sounds of the woodlands were about her, except for Orpheus' occasional snort or stamp of a hoof, and the jangle of his bridle and other trappings, and her own breath and heartbeat.

"Let's stop a moment, old friend," she said, and slipped down out of the saddle, her slippered feet touching to the ground softly.  Gathering the reins into one hand, she moved round in front of the Pegasus and gave him a pat on the shoulder.  Without a blink of his huge, sea green eyes, Orpheus followed her: patient and loyal.  

Off of the invisible path that they had been following the two went, until Elowyn was contented with their position in the woods.  Then, she sat down on the weathered, knotted root of a tree, which stuck up out of the ground until it was almost taller than her, and took off her left slipper, flexing her foot and wriggling her toes.  It was incomparably lovely to be free of the tight-fitting contraptions, and to be surrounded by the ageless, green beauty of the forest.

She turned to Orpheus.

"I don't know why all the court ladies wouldn't rather be out here.  Nice as the palace is, a lot of them just prefer to sit in the Chambers of State and chatter all day, where the sun can't touch them and the birds can't sing to them.  And they'd reduce me to that.  _Me_ – can you think of it, Orpheus?  _Me_!"

_It passes belief,_ the look in the Pegasus's eyes seemed to say.

Elowyn shook her head and returned her attentions to removing the other slipper.  

Today, she was dressed in a soft, bulky dark green tunic, with a long heather-gray skirt to go with it.  Skirts she would accept as clothing, but only when she was in the castle. Gowns were totally prohibited when it came to the headstrong young princess's wardrobe, and skirts only received passing allowance.  Now, if she were given her total preference, breeches, tunics, and boots would have been in the mod for her.  No matter _how_ much Vahlada now and then gently prodded her to dress as a lady.  However, now that she was out on her own, she could dress as she pleased.  

Off came the slippers, unbuttoned was the skirt, and she stood up again: folding the skirt into a neat bundle, now garbed properly in the breeches that she had hidden under it, with a pair of tall leather boots awaiting her.  Out of the bejeweled net came her long, unruly head of pale blonde curls, showering down her back like a waterfall, to be plaited into a loose braid by her expert hands.

Once the transformation from unwilling court beauty to forest adventurer princess had been made, a snack of two large and highly glossed red apples was made by the two comrades.  Orpheus, of course, munched with considerably more relish than Elowyn, who sat on her tree root and chewed thoughtfully, in silence.  Then she dug out the common wayfaring staple: a thick although light sort of honey-flavored wafer that filled one and gave one energy but not an extra load in the stomach.  

Noticing her actions, Orpheus stretched out his long, graceful neck towards his young mistress, horse-lips curling back from horse-teeth, shaking his head from side to side and nickering softly.  Elowyn smiled a bit but held the wafers away from him.

"Not for you."

Orpheus let her know his displeasure by making a huffy grunt and rolling his eyes so that their whites showed, but Elowyn merely grinned.

"None of that now, you rogue.  You don't want to become one of those shaggy, silly little ponies that they keep in the stables at court – the fat, roly-poly creatures who are only good for clip-clopping around and being ooh-ed and aah-ed at, do you?"

Orpheus vehemently denied this with even more violent shaking of the head.

"Then lay off of _my food."_

And once again, the two relapsed into silence, Elowyn continuing her momentarily interrupted train of thought as she chewed, a pensive look on her face.                 

Of course, her excursions into the forest weren't devoid of some restrictions.  Orandor might have been a _partially_ indulgent father, but he was not without common sense and fatherly authority.  Whenever she was to be out of the castle – whether spontaneously or planned long ahead – she was to report within the next day to her parents, and let them know where she was, and that sort of thing.  It didn't matter whether they had the powers to see her wherever she went and whatever she did; it was simply the rule.  And her responsibility.  

After that, it was really quite simple.  She could roam anywhere about in the White Realm's lands, but she must be in the company of friends at least some of the time, and she must never cross very far over the magical boundaries that separated her world – the world of the faeries – from that of the mortals.  When she _did_ cross the boundaries, it was a very seldom occasion, and most of the time, only for special reasons of her own that Orandor had deemed permissible.

She really couldn't complain of her life being irritating or even close to horrible.  She had two parents who loved her more deeply than she could imagine, and a host of sisters and brothers who all held her in equal affection.  She was given her freedom, for the most part, and the life of a princess, a _faery princess_, was one that she could call her own forever more.  Perhaps she had to deal with the annoyances of court life and society and being expected to change her ways in order to become a lady…but it really wasn't that bad.  She was an experienced enchantress, even at the young age of seventeen years old, and she was immortal.

However, what exactly could one say about not being allowed to do certain things because of her birth-parents deaths – as she had been adopted by Orandor and Vahlada as an infant – and because of some unbelievably _wonky_ prophesy that had been made about her, _her_, thousands of years before she had ever come into existence?

*                       *                       *

**Author's Note**:  Hello to everyone – those of you who are new to my fantasy world, and those who have followed it from Ella, Arin, and Gavin's earliest capers in _Wings of the Heart_!  I hope you find much enjoyment in this, my newest little epic, and will do everything I can to make certain that you experience these latest adventures as just as much of a thrill-ride as those that came before it.  Any questions, comments, and/or concerns?  Address them to miladylefantome@yahoo.com.  Now, if you'll be oh so lovely and kind and review, I shall love you forever…and when I get a certain amount of reviews, the people who are responsible for them will be privy to a real live faery-tale secret, which I think you all will want to know…  ^_^

First and last claimer/disclaimer: So, once and for all, before we begin, let it be known to everyone that all characters, names, places, and creatures featured within are straight from the imagination of Kates, and any attempt by anyone else to cause them to be otherwise will be looked on with the greatest contempt.  (So, of your courtesy, don't try to kidnap or hurt my Evyrworldians.  It would greatly sadden me, and they wouldn't like it too much.)  Any mention of real-life fairy tales, such as Beauty and the Beast, Little Red Riding Hood, or others is purely at the whim of the authoress, although I do not own any of them.  Fairy tales _are_ free-domain, though, aren't they…

@{-------------------------------


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two – 

The Three Adventurers

In the supremely beautiful southern country of Lærelin, the young crown prince – Robeneron, playfully nicknamed 'Robbie' for short by none other than his aunt, Elowyn of the White Realm, whom he was three months older than – stood on the ramparts of his family's estate castle, in the heart of the country's capitol.  Wordless, he surveyed the ground beneath him as guards making their rounds of the perimeter and courtiers passed him by, acknowledging their prince respectfully but otherwise not disturbing him.  Then, squinting his ice-blue eyes, he took his gaze from the rooftops below and looked up to the sky.  

The bright mid-afternoon sun beat down upon the castle of Aírenien, touching on his often deplored, wavy, long black hair, and he put up one hand at length to muss it, a look of slight annoyance crossing his young features.  'Handsome' was the simplest word to be utilized by the prince's many female admirers in the way of describing him, and it was certainly and without a doubt true that he was indeed quite fair of face.  After all, Robbie _was_ the son of the legendarily beautiful faery princess Elladine, now the queen of Lærelin, and the unnaturally handsome enchanter-prince Arin, now the king.  Faery blood was – it was said throughout the kingdom, by all of the royal family's adoring subjects – the _surest_ way to be attractive to the extreme.

And Robbie certainly looked handsome enough now as he stood at the edge of the castle walls, looking out for any sign of his expected guests – although he scarcely felt anything but hot and irritated.  Why was she always late?  If he could give a gold farthing for every time that she had been tardy, he could buy…

"_Larien scienorith_, Prince Robeneron!" an alto-toned, silky, and infuriatingly cheerful voice called out to him from a little ways down the wall.  

Robbie whirled around, slightly startled, and then narrowed his eyes at the dark-garbed figure that now approached him.  

"Don't you go starting to tell me about what a good day it is, Salamaïre – _especially_ when you've just excelled yourself at your own record of being late!" he retorted as his athletic but aloofly beautiful, olive-skinned and dark-haired cousin-two-times-removed smiled gaily at him.  

Sala, her name also shortened at the whim of youthfulness, shot him a convincingly acidic look then, one dark eyebrow quirking, and tossed her head.  A slight dimple appeared at the corner of one side of her mouth.

"Well now, who woke up on the wrong side of his royal bed today?  Is there a stick poking you in the back, Prince Robbie?  You seem a little _tense_."

Robbie rolled his eyes and quickly sidestepped her before she could get her fingers near his ribcage and squeeze – it had long-since been established that it was his weak spot, as he had been ticklish as a child.  Sala still liked to tease him about it.  Mercilessly.

"I woke up perfectly on the _right_ side of the bed today, Sala," He said her name pointedly, almost accusingly, which fit in with his next words: "And there isn't any bloody stick poking me in the back – you know, I think that you just can't grasp the concept of time.  I mean, being late once or twice is fine, and there _is_ such a thing as 'fashionably late', but somehow you've managed to turn even _that into something that is simply…"_

"Poor Robbie.  Isn't it enough that the Fates should leave him to have all of his adventures with his dear auntie and cousin, when there might be other company to be had?  There now, don't scowl, Robbie – you'll give yourself a migraine." came another voice from slightly down below them.  

In the next instant, Elowyn appeared: perched casually atop Orpheus' back as the Pegasus kept the two of them aloft with powerful, steady beats of his shining wings.  

Both of the two young faeries on the wall were all smiles then, even Robbie, who somehow regained his better sense of humor.  Elowyn gave a tug on the reins and Orpheus winged a bit further into the air, and then swooped about gracefully, turning around so that he alit onto the wall.  

Elowyn ran a hand through her blonde curls, which had been blown helter-skelter by the wind during her ride to her nephew's family castle, and commented lightly, "You two should have seen the commutes here today – I've not witnessed a larger congregation of basilisk- and wyvern-riders since the last time we had that international Sentient symposium at Avalennon."

"_I_ saw them." Sala replied, a wry smile quirking her peach-toned lips. "A perfect bloody mess – me and Typho could scarcely get through." And she jerked her head slightly towards the sprawling green fields that surrounded the castle, where her very own wyvern – Typho – was surely sporting out in the sea of grasses, awaiting his mistress's return.

Robbie shrugged and raised his hands in the air, dismissing any of his responsibility in the matter.  "Another one of the trimester national audiences with the reigning monarchs," he told them. "It's been required since around perhaps four hundred years ago, and all because it just so happens that the different magic-and-enchantment-powered Sentients are making their presence a lot more apparent in the mortal world…"

"And the mortal subjects start to get nervous," remarked Elowyn, but without malice.  Mortals both interested and bored her.  It depended on the mortal, however.  She shrugged in turn. "Well, since we're all here now…what do you say we take off?  I need a good, long ride to clear my mind, and I only have until tonight to be out."

Both Robbie and Sala reacted with disappointment and dismay, almost simultaneously.  Robbie was the first to voice his displeasure at this news.  

"Elowyn, why?  Only until tonight – isn't that a bit short?"

She turned to him with a wry smile quirking her perfectly shaped mouth.

"Tell my dancing instructor that.  He insists that I've got to put more effort into my _aralaides_ and the winged serpentine _Tuilaeyars_, and that my being out running through the woods will only put further damage into my 'delicate arch'!  That, and he's vowed that if I miss another lesson, he'll have a word or two with my father about it, and you know how annoying that would be…"

Robbie and Sala made expressions and sounds congruent with their disgust at this, and Sala commented, "Well then, I suppose that we'll just have to make do with the time we've got—"

"Which will be, like, the rest of this afternoon." Robbie put in, dryly.

"And we'll see that you make it back to dancing lessons before they miss you." Sala finished evenly, while flexing her fingers threateningly.  Robbie made a tiny bit of a face at her.

"I could always just run out on them again." Elowyn said, thoughtfully.

"But didn't you just give Enabelle and her cohorts the slip again this very day?" Robbie guessed.  He knew Elowyn and her habits just a bit too well, and from her barely suppressed, sly little smile, he saw that this was true. "You probably couldn't play that trick on them more than once."

"In all likeliness?" she replied. "No.  But I can always try, and evading the trammels of society, such as it is, is rapidly becoming an art for me…"

"Just don't forget that adventuring is what our art _really_ is, Princess Elowyn." Sala reminded her with a grin as the three began to move towards a battlement nearby, the door of which led off of the ramparts and into the castle beyond.

Elowyn smiled back at her, knowing that this was true: truer than a good many things, and that she could not doubt it.  

It had always been this way – from the very beginning, Elowyn had been an adventurous, impetuous, headstrong, and absolutely irrepressible free spirit, and her two best friends in the entire world had always been Robbie and Sala.  

Black-haired, blue-eyed, fair-skinned, tall and handsome Robbie was, for his part, as audacious, bold, and impulsive as Elowyn, but he also had a more cautious side to him as well.  This had saved them from quite a few nasty episodes – however, it also came as somewhat of an annoyance to Elowyn and Sala, who were more inclined to spontaneity and other such qualities.

Sala was Robbie's exact opposite, except for the wry sense of humor that they all shared.  She was senior to both of them, and came from a faery kingdom of the mortal lands; hence, her exotic appearance, complete with short-cropped but attractive black hair, shrewd, penetrating eyes of deep burnt sienna, a richly olive complexion, and willowy, athletic build to match.  In comparison to Elowyn, she was even more outspoken and fiery, railing against the standards of society.  All three of them were becoming known as the mavericks of the court, and there had been many to deplore their antics.

But so it had always been.

_And,_ thought Elowyn, smiling to herself, as Sala called Typho over to her with a strong, high-pitched, warbling whistle, and Robbie went into the stables to fetch his own mount – Ideiron, one of the royal horses bred specifically for the use of the reigning monarchs – _It always will be._

_It always will be._          

*                       *                       *

**Author's Note**:  Cast list!  At least, for the characters that have been presented and or mentioned thus far…

Elowyn: Julia Stiles

Robbie: Tom Cavill

Sala: Selma Blair

Orandor: Hugo Weaving, as Elrond from the Lord of the Rings movies

Vahlada: Jane Seymour

Ella: Natalie Portman

Arin: Orlando Bloom

Gavin: Jensen Ackles

And now, I beg and implore and otherwise beseech you to review…


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three – 

The Darkness Stirs

_Akhât ir n'et shívnôrstorak… _

_Legends of an ancient evil…_

_Nâstor azra reinor n'ete vaetron ríthfaednor… _

_Whispers that bespeak of a powerful darkness…_

_Etyrka nahz jezell, s'ríthfaedor estor shaáth, a'tar dranth nahz-ra'a indísaoir…_

_The world will fall, the darkness will come, and all will be lost…_

_S'ríth-Anstarinaor n'et Sytherria dran ílyor. _

_The Dark Lord of Sytherria has awakened._

Within a dream world, looking on at everything around him but unseen by any eye, he felt as if he was watching a strange, morbid dramatic performance.  In the midst of a cavernous, being-filled corridor of black malachite: a stone as dark and ghostly as the figures that walked upon and within it, he stood in silence.  There was an electrifying, unseen pressure on the air, as if a massive, black thundercloud full of wrath and wicked tongues of lightning were looming just above everyone's heads, awaiting the silent cue to let loose its fury.

_'Something is going to happen,'_ it was whispered throughout the mottled and diverse crowd: composed of creatures of every shape and size and kind imaginable, but all dark and evil.  This was a vile court – a court of the Dark Realm.

_'Something is going to happen – he is coming.'_

_'He is coming…'_

Drifting through the crowds, through the disgusting and frightful creatures and people, he soon came to a huge, circular room with a domed roof, upon the ceiling of which stretched a depiction of a black maelstrom, a storm of horrific proportions, of the worst kind.

_'He is coming…'_ came the whisper in his ears…

A trembling silence came over the room then; all movement stopped, and every being within the place froze, and a dread fear came into their eyes.  He could see it.  The terror about him was almost tangible.  It grew with each second…

Then, the darkness stirred.

He could not see this darkness, but he knew that it was there.  In the deepest regions of his heart, he could sense the pang of the cold, aching recognition that was now awakened by the movement of this greatest darkness of all darkness.  The place and people that surrounded him were both black…but this evil surmounted even them, and by far.  This evil was the captain of all evil.

Something began to thud – to resound deeply, in the pit of his chest – but he couldn't tell if it was the beating of his own heart, or the _Something_ that was coming forth from the dredges of the darkness, from behind the closed doors at the end of the room.

The silence intensified.

All held their breath.

The doors opened.

Ancient, familiar fear and loathing assailed him at once then, for he knew now that he recognized – without a doubt – the arrogant, towering black figure that stood at the thresh hold now, looking down from within the depths of a black hood: an icy, repelling set of waves seemed to come off of it, rippling into the room.  A sound almost akin to the hiss of a snake – one gigantic, venomous, evil reptile – came from the crowd in the room: a greeting.

_'Tis the Dark Lord._

Then a chill, musical woman's alto rang forth like cold steel from the silence.  It was a voice that was devoid of any heart or soul, a voice that was empty and uncaring, but dripping with the black ink of evil.  _'Ríth-Anstarinaor n'et Sytherria …Dark Lord of Sytherria…your time has come.'_

A slow nod of the hooded head was all that the wraith – the only form that the life force of long-undead Dark Lord could manifest itself within – made in recognition of these words.

What he saw next was fast and blurred: the towering wraith, hooded and cloaked in black, with skeletal gauntlets upon its gloved hands, as he stood beside a tall, regal woman with fine, flawless skin of alabaster white, and hair that matched her black attire to the perfect degree, with eyes that burned within her painted face.  Together, they stood before an altar-like black monument, looking down upon what lay atop it…

_The still outline of a body shrouded in black silk… _

A noise like a terrible whirlwind, and the shriek of all the most horrific creatures of the underworlds, and above it rose a chant in the tongue of the Dark Realm: calling the living figure of the Dark Lord of old back to life—

Two eyes of pure violet-gray flew open, staring straight at him—

Blackness, hissing.

Then…

_'She will never escape my labyrinth…'_

*                       *                       *

"_Elowyn_!"

Waking from the horrible dream that had overcome his mind, wresting himself from the blackness of unconsciousness, Orandor – Lord of the White Realm and the fortress of Avalennon – sat up quickly and began to gasp for breath, eyes wide and staring at the room that surrounded him, looking at it as if he had never seen it before.  

He could feel a cold, icy sweat coating every inch of his skin, and there were horrible shudders of loathing, age-old fear running up and down his spine.  The darkness of night seemed to close in around him, pressing against him as if it sought to choke the very life out of him, its fingers trying to find their way around his throat…

Then, next to him, Vahlada had also awakened and was now sitting up and reaching out to him, cornflower-blue eyes searching and worried: graceful, lovely features etched with both fear and concern.  Her hand touched his arm.

"_È-tor_, my love, what is it?" she asked, her soft, gentle voice running like silk over the syllables of the faery name of affection.

Orandor closed his gray eyes and prayed to the Fates, the Seven Powers of the World, and the Three Themselves that what he had seen was not what he thought; meanwhile, Vahlada continued to gaze at him searchingly, a line appearing between her curving brows.  Finally, he raised one hand and put it to his forehead, letting it pass over his eyes: fingertips briefly touching his suddenly very weary eyes.

"It was a dream, _tel-anor_," he replied, using the same tongue as she. "It was a dream…but of a kind unlike any that I have ever yet experienced."

Having said this, he raised his eyes and looked out into the room again, gaze focusing on some object that was beyond reach and tangibility.  Vahlada did not take her eyes from him.  

There was something in her husband's air that unnerved her.  For hundreds of thousands of years, for millenniums past the mortal reckoning, she had seen each one of her beloved's reactions to everything, and she knew her mate as well as he knew her.  When a faery took a mate, it was with the understanding that they will be together for all of eternity, conjoined as one, and both partners soon learn that they will know each other better than any other being in all the world.  Vahlada had seen Orandor in many situations, ranging from grim to humorous to joyous to desperate…

But never yet had she seen him so troubled.

Slowly then, he reached out a hand to her, and she put her own hand within it.  Orandor drew her to his side then, and they remained silent for a long while, arms draped about one another as the shadows of night continued to shift and change about them.  At length then, he said, his voice low and pensive, as it was wont to be when he was in deep thought about something, "I do not know from whence it came, but it spoke of the return of the darkness – of evil incarnate and undefeatable.  It spoke of the return of the One who would destroy us all."

The Dark Lord of Sytherria.

Vahlada remembered the Dark Lord well.  

Hers had been a faery stronghold in the mortal world, and she, the warrior-princess daughter of a noble monarch – but the strength and potency of their magic had been far from enough to keep back the ravages of the Dark Realm.  The dread lord of Sytherria had struck his most devastating blows at the very foundations of their land, and it had taken many long and arduous years to return it to its former status of peerless, pure beauty.  She knew his name well.  Never would she be able to forget, in all her life, the sight of that towering figure in black armor: throttling a helpless faery warrior in one hand, seizing the life from him.

Burying her head against her husband's strong, smooth shoulder, she closed her eyes and strove to banish those horrible memories of the darkness unassailable from her mind.  Orandor's hand abstractedly ran itself over her flowing, wavy golden locks, as they both lapsed into silence.

" _'She will never escape my labyrinth…'_ it said," he murmured, softly. "Why does my mind fill with the thought of none other than the one who is to bring about the downfall of all evil?  I cannot keep her from her destiny – I have long known this; _no one can_…"

_S'ríthfaedor estor shaáth…_

_The darkness will come…_

"What do you have planned for her, Lord of the Darkness?"

*                       *                       *__

**Author's Note**:  Just a side note here – the Dark Lord featured in this story, he's not _exactly_ the Sauron type, if anyone sees a resemblance.  Yes, they'd both be out for world-domination and the complete and uncontested rule of evil if they were actually real, but other than that, they're quite a bit different.  (Bar an obsession with gothic looking armor…of course…)  I just felt I should add that in there, so no one would sue me or whatnot for being a bad little copycat.  


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four – 

A Meeting in the Library

The lords of the White Realm were not without some great cunning on their own part when it came to the activities of their evil archenemies in the Dark Realm.  After several instances in which it was found that the darkness was still very much alive and functioning, and that traitors could still be made, a decision of potentially disastrous proportions had been made.

Although no one in the Dark Realm knew it, there were _spies_ among them.

*                       *                       *

The very morning after Elowyn had given her two handmaids the slip from her tower-room, a dark-garbed, silent, and grim figure made its way across the huge, dazzling white limestone courtyard that was before the castle of Avalennon, with a wide stairway leading up to its doors.  The other beings present in the place that bright morning greeted him – some familiarly, some respectfully – but he did not pause a moment to acknowledge them.

But they did not take offense at this: they knew that this was the way of the Lord Brendan, brother of the Lord Orandor.

Brendan was a tall, proud faery nobleman with a noble and stoic bearing.  His wayfaring nature was made apparent in his appearance: thick, longish, sandy blond, and windswept hair that he only just kept off of his forehead by an irritated swipe of the hand every once in a while, piercing gray eyes narrowed sharp and perceptive, skin tanned and weathered by many hours spent out in the elements.  His clothing was dark and commonplace next to the brighter and more ethereal robes of his faery counterparts: his being the garb of a seasoned traveler.  He was known throughout the Sentient circles as a grim and slightly cynical figure, whose sarcasm was only matched by his keen intellect and espionage skills.

This particular morning, he seemed in a bit more of a hurry than he was usually wont to be – it was not often that he visited Avalennon, for his duties were of such a nature that he could not take himself away from them for very long, with any safety.  

No one, however, gave this much of a thought as he quickly and silently made his way across the courtyard.  

He mounted the broad, sweeping white steps with a determined stride and disappeared beneath the shadows of the pillars that fronted that part of the castle.  Everyone else went about his and her own ways, forgetting that he had been there the moment that he had gone.

Meanwhile, Brendan went into the large, open room that was just beyond the pillars, pausing fifty yards in and taking a moment to bow deferentially.

"I pray that the Three keep you well, brother."

"And you also," was the reply from the red-and-gold robed ruler of Avalennon, who rose from his chair to greet his brother in the formal faery fashion.  When this had been done, Brendan stepped back and told him, "I've some news for you – but I think it would be best if it was not brought to light _here_."

Orandor nodded, his gray eyes as serious and dark as Brendan's.

"I had thought as much.  Come – to the library."

*                       *                       *

Elowyn climbed off of Orpheus' back, onto the marble window ledge, and gave the Pegasus a pat on the shoulder, signaling for him to leave her there and return to his stall in the stables.  He snorted softly in reply and bucked his head, causing his sea-foam mane to glint and toss in the morning breeze, and then with a powerful swipe of his wings, he flew off.  Elowyn watched him go, until he rounded a corner made by a stand of tall, spreading cedar trees, and disappeared.  Only then did she re-enter her room.

Today was a fine, warm spring day, and the sun was just coming up.  Leaning forward, the young faery princess rested both of her elbows on the windowsill, her chin cupped in her hands, and gazed out, lying there in a half curled-up position on her bed.  

The sky was a pastel canvas awash with the soft taints of morning: pale blue, a blushing apricot-pink, and the most tentative but increasingly bold tinges of pure, liquid gold – the herald of the coming sun.  Far off in the distance, beyond the spiky dark-green treetops and the mist-enshrouded mountains even further away, she could see the dawning light.  

A cool, playful breeze was caught up on the air, and it slipped in through the wide-open window to riffle briskly, almost mischievously through the loose papers that she had left out, and touch on the leather-bound covers of her books, shoot through the dark blue curtains on the bed and toy with the tasseled-fringes, and lastly run its fingers through her tousled, pale blonde hair.

Elowyn let her green eyes slip halfway closed, and she sighed. 

Another perfectly _lovely_ day.

It was with an air of half-reluctance and half-contentment that she turned to survey the familiar surroundings of her room.  This place, the tower-room, had always been her personal sanctuary, much as the Tower of Lore had been her father's, and the Eastern Sea-Wall her mother's.  Here, after she had mounted the flights of winding stairs, she could close the door and separate herself from everyone else – but not the world as a whole.  There were seven gabled windows that made up a good part of the walls, all of which looked out onto the scenery of Avalennon, and the lands that surrounded it.  From here, she could look out at the realm that she knew as her home and see all of its pure, flawless beauty.

Her room, however, was not so flawless itself.

Being not only a princess and an adventurer, she was also a scholar, and normally, her room was kept in what had become known as 'concentrated chaos'.  It could be clean – at times.  Usually when Vahlada threatened her with a midday cotillion with several of the more preposterous faery countesses and duchesses at court, the young princess's room underwent a _dramatic_ change of appearance.  

Within the space was kept any number of things.  Her canopied four-poster bed of warm and glossy mahogany wood was the largest and therefore most obvious resident, and was covered and hung in sleek, understatedly-elegant dark hues, such as that midnight blue and evergreen, along with a snowy white for the sheets and pillows, and gold detailing on all.  Then there were her rows of shelves in the spaces where the windows weren't, completely filled with her favorite books, and a desk with plenty of room for papers, quill-pens, inkwells, and other scholarly odds-and-ends.  A plumply cushioned, bowl-shaped chair was there as well, heaped with several inviting pillows, and an ottoman for the feet to rest upon after a long day of horseback riding, or studying.  

Elowyn had always insisted that, as she did not wear gowns, she had no need of a dressing room, but one had been installed recently, despite her protests.  It was rather empty looking, and she kept the door perpetually closed, as the blank and echoing space made her feel oddly dreary – as did the prospects of the entire court's expectations for her.

This room was the residence of a scholar princess, who only wished to be left to her books, to her adventuring, and to life with her parents, and not an early marriage at the age of seventeen to some Prince Something-Or-Other.  This room was kept in an order halfway between tidy and comfortably cluttered, and she loved to dwell within it.

Just then, turning around, she noticed that something hung on the dressing screen that had been set up directly beside the fireplace.  Crossing the room with a frown of growing, dawning knowledge ebbing onto her features, she picked off the note that had been left pinned to the simple, unassuming cream-white gown before her.  

_'Magister Feyderon is awaiting you in the Lavender Ballroom,'_ it read, in elegant bronze script, _'Please, I beg you, Elowyn, behave.  And wear the dress.'_   

The last four words had been written distinctly larger than the rest, as had 'behave'.  

Elowyn set the note down on the conveniently placed little table that stood near the dressing screen, her upper lip twisting a bit in scorn.  Obviously, pompous and grandiose Magister Feyderon had been lying in wait for her ever since her escape the night before, and he'd had a word or two with her mother.  She glared at the dress for a moment, which seemed to shrink and cower back at her fulminating sea-green gaze.  

As a child, she had very often managed to insinuate herself into the company, however covertly, of her father, brothers, and other _male_ relatives, and after the course of so many hunts, casual visits, and other informal functions, she had picked up quite a bit of what Vahlada despised as less than 'appropriate language' for a young princess.  Right now she deployed quite a string of just that, muttering under her breath savagely about certain portly, self-assured, holier-than-thou-and-don't-you-know-it court dancing instructors.  She didn't care if Feyderon happened to be the count of Talier: he was going to get a bad time of it this morning from his young pupil.

And so, glowering, Elowyn removed her breeches, tunic, and boots, replaced them with the scoop neck, ankle-length gown, and slipped on yet another pair of the incredibly irritating, pointy-toed and bejeweled slippers that everyone insisted she wear to lessons.  She ran her brush through her hair crossly and then twisted, pinned, and plaited it back in an informal princess's style.  

Before she left her room to face the drudgery of lessons, however, she paused to step over to her bedside table.  There was a candelabra set there, upon which hung a lovely necklace: it had a thin, almost thread-like chain of gold, which slid like liquid over her collarbones, and a single pendant of a glowing, milky crystal of white opal, cut and melded into the shape of a teardrop.  This had been her present from her mother and father at birth – her birth parents, who had died when she was but a few days old in a horrific battle between the Dark Realm and the White – and she always felt as if she could at least somewhat touch their memory, their spirit in her life, when she wore it.

Then, placing her hand briefly over the glowing pendant, she set her shoulders back and inhaled, resolution in her air, and passed through the doorway, going on her way to the often deplored dancing lessons with Magister Feyderon.

*                       *                       *

The dancing master was not there when she arrived, however, and after two minutes of foot tapping waiting, Elowyn nonchalantly gave up and skipped out of the room, as carefree and blissful as a butterfly.  If her dancing teacher was not present at the agreed time, then she had no obligations to wait on him.

And she was only too glad to make an escape.

Through the halls of Avalennon she wandered, examining and scrutinizing the walls of the castle that never seemed to be the same twice.  It was incomparably lovely, she well knew, to live in such a place.  Magic and enchantment fairly shimmered on the air.

Eventually, she came to the library.  The way that she had taken led into the library from down a long, wide hall, which was lined on either side with pillars of creamy marble, set with brilliant lapis lazuli and jade along the tops and bottoms.  Elowyn suddenly became very aware of the heavy presence of the shadows, but by this time, it was already too late.

"Hmm…now what could _this_ be?  Isn't the young princess supposed to be in lessons with the other members of her generation?  It surely looks as if she _ought_ to be," came a mercilessly teasing voice set somewhere in the less deep baritone register, ringing like gold.

"Well now, don't pass judgment so quickly," came another voice: velvety, and clear as crystal, or ice, more tenor than anything else.

And then her older brother – Gavin – and four other people stepped out of the shadows that were underneath the pillars.  Elowyn found herself forced to stop, as he had stepped in front of her, casually leaning against one of the gigantic stone works, looking down on her with an air of amusement written all over his handsome face.

Elowyn muttered under her breath in faery, glaring at the floor momentarily.  

"He ratted on me – didn't he."  

There was no question of who 'he' was.

But one of the two other men who stood behind her shook his head, a knowing half-smile curving his lips, and replied gravely, "Oh – don't think of it as ratting.  Think of it as: we asked, and he told us.  We _are_ his parents, you know."

"And _you_ are under the obligation of both your tutors—" the third man began to remind her gravely, although the sparkle in his sapphire blue eyes betrayed his true outtake on the situation, and Elowyn cut him off by a roll of her eyes and an irritated wave of one hand.

"Yes, yes – and the compulsion of a prophecy made thousands of years before I was ever born.  You just find it absolutely necessary to hang that over my head without ceasing, don't you?"

So saying, she turned on the group who stood behind her.  The five exchanged glances, varying emotions flying through the air.  Elowyn's arms went akimbo as she placed her hands on her slender hips.

"What do you all want to keep me from _now_?" she questioned, without preamble.

Gavin, Arin, and Orlando all managed to look convincingly innocent, if not slightly poker-faced, while Arielle and Elladine smiled ruefully at her.  Finally, from Elladine, "We're not trying to keep you from anything, sweetness – Gavin just likes to speak as if he's never committed a wrong worthy of censure in his life."

"_Ella_."  Exasperated, from the accused.

His sister shot him a thoroughly unconvinced, unrelenting look.  "It's true, Gav, and don't you make to worm your way out of this one.  You skipped classes enough when you were her age."

"Elladine, that was at least a thousand years ago!" Gavin shot back, but before the two could banter on any further in this exchange, Arin stepped forward, to Elowyn's side and spoke to her in a lowered voice.  She looked up at him with both trust and confusion in her eyes; always, always, had her brother-in-law – who had once led quite a tormented existence himself, and well understood the feelings of his fellow beings – been the one whom she could trust to explain things to her, who she could rely on for both answers and security.  He was the one whom she could turn to for empathy in the midst of living an already insane adolescent life, with the addition of the weight of a crown and an ancient prophecy crushing down on her head.

"We're glad you all enjoyed yourselves out yesterday," he said, smiling at her knowingly.  His son was Robbie, and Arin well knew of what close camaraderie Elowyn shared with both Robbie and their cousin Sala. "Feyderon caught both your mother and your father last night, and I think that he was so long at persisting that you be reined in for this morning's lessons that your mother couldn't stand it – or _him_ – any longer, and so she relented.  She told Ella and me, when we got here earlier, to apologize for the dress."

"Apology accepted." Elowyn grumbled. "Now why is Gavin not allowing me to go into the library?"

Arin merely grinned again.

"Why is Gavin not allowing you to go in?  Why should it matter?  In fact, why should _anything_ that we do matter as to what you choose to do – it never has before."

Elowyn's eyes sparkled with truly Spryte-like mirth.

"Too true."

Her brother-in-law turned her about and then gave her a gentle push towards the doors to the library.  "Go on," he told her, gesturing that she ought to run while she could.

Orlando – her, Gavin, and Elladine's cousin – winked at her.

"We won't tell on you."

"Won't tell on her for _what_?" Elowyn heard Gavin query, too late, as she gathered her skirts in both of her hands and darted towards the library doors, leaving them behind.

The door had closed behind her, grating heavily on its hinges, by the time that Gavin realized that his companions had gone behind his back in order to assist the young princess to further escape.  Turning to the four of them – as Elladine and Arielle smirked, with glee in their eyes, and Orlando and Arin tried _very_ hard to stifle their snickers and chortling behind their hands – he shot them all a look of through-and-through, huffy resentment.

"All right, perhaps you all don't realize that_ I'm_ the one who is going to have to undergo a luncheon with the nobles at court this afternoon, and that one Magister Feyderon will certainly be present, and is sure to badger me without abatement until I tell him just how his elusive quarry managed to escape me?  Because I'm sure that if you _did_ know it, you wouldn't have just done something as incredibly nasty and underhanded to me as, perchance – shall we say – letting her go?"

"Please, _do_ keep reminding yourself that!" was Arin's choked reply as he, Orlando, Arielle, and Elladine turned tail and dashed away down the hall.

Gavin narrowed his eyes and went after them.

"_You_ can have an invite as well, Master Arin!"

*                       *                       *

As soon as she had closed the library door behind herself, Elowyn knew that she was not at all alone in the place.  Instantly, she heard two very familiar voices – one was the measured, resonant baritone of her father, and the other was the dry, husky bass of her Uncle Brendan.  This made her ears perk up a bit. 

She knew as well as the rest of her siblings and her parents that Brendan was Orandor's elected spy to the Dark Realm, and that he moved easily and without notice through the deepest circles of evil, never once suspected, going in and out of the realm of darkness as easily as he might go in and out of a doorway.

But why was he _here_?  His visits were quite seldom.

Elowyn didn't like the thought of being caught eavesdropping, by either her father or her uncle, but she was curious enough to forego this apprehension.  So she tiptoed down an aisle made by two shelves of books, and edged to the corner of one, peering around it carefully.

Her father and her uncle were quite apparently in deep conversation, speaking of something that seemed rather serious.  

"You know of the rumors that are beginning to spread about the mortal lands," she heard Brendan's voice saying. "Rumors that tell of a legend among legends of evil – of a darkness growing in the furthest reaches of the lands, drawing ever nearer to the mortals and overtaking the skies.  Vile creatures have started to appear again: trolls and ogres in the North, Esflaron wolves in the East and the West, and ghouls in the South.  Witches and sorcerers are coming out of the woodwork by scores, and the hostile realms have already begun to build their armies – Torians, Zekflagors, and the Dvastir.  There have even been mentions of the dreaded _Antari_…and you _know_ Whom they serve, Who _alone_.  Orandor, they're all preparing for something – they're waiting for Him."

"They've called Him."

Elowyn felt her heart harden into ice.  Never had she heard such a note in her father's voice.  It sounded as if he was tired and world-weary, despairing and utterly drained of all strength and emotion.  What was this Darkness that they spoke of, which seemed to strike so much fear into every living being?

"They _have_ called Him." Brendan's voice again, even more deadly serious. "They have called Him, and He has heard their call – undead as He is.  It will not be long before He will make His return."

"We should have done more."

"We thought that He had passed from existence!" Now Brendan seemed exasperated, upset, but not at her father. "On that day on the battle field, we thought that we had utterly destroyed Him – what _more_ could we have done?  For these hundreds of thousands of years, His body has lain in waiting, hidden, all the while as He inhabited the form of a wraith – yes, Orandor, _I saw Him_.  I saw the wraith of the Ebony Queen, who has now set herself up as the head of the dark captains.  She is the reason why the Dark Realm has rallied its forces once more.  You remember her.  She wouldn't have given up, she wouldn't have surrendered – _not_ when the Darkness remained.  So she somehow managed to save Him, to gather up what last, dying traces of His life remained after we thought that we had destroyed Him…and since that day, He has lived as a shadow, His life-force sapped of all of its power, with only His dark soul to remain on this earth."

"A wraith…hidden for centuries, millenniums.  And now His power has returned?"

"That is what I have come to tell you – she summoned Him from the shadows and told Him, before the entire dark court, that His time had come at last."

"They've restored Him to His body."

Silence.

"Do you know what this means?"

"It means that we ought to chose our meeting places with a bit more care, I'm afraid, Brendan.  It's all right now, Elowyn – you may come out and stop skulking behind that shelf."

Elowyn felt her face crumple up, and she let out an incredulous, disbelieving "_What_?" before she could stop herself.  Then, realizing what she had done, she clapped one hand over her mouth.  In the next instant, both Orandor and a very amused-looking Brendan came around the corner of the shelf, looking down on her with gray eyes alit under quirked eyebrows.  She attempted to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible, quite self-effaced.

"Sorry?" she offered.

But Orandor brushed this off.  "Don't," he said, beckoning for her to come out and join them.  Together, the three of them went out into the central square of the room, where four large couches has been arranged around a large table, before the enormous fireplace.  When they had all seated themselves, Orandor sent her a look full of chagrin and apology, rueful.

"You needn't apologize for overhearing that conversation.  I knew Magister Feyderon would most likely be late for your lesson, and in spite of that, I had Brendan give his rather intriguing _news_ to me in this library, where of all places you are most likely to be found, and not a word can be uttered here that you won't be aware of."

But, light and almost humorous as her father's tone now was, Elowyn felt compelled to ask him of what they had been speaking.  It had seemed so _serious_!

"Father, please," she said, earnestly and almost fearfully. "What is going on?"

Orandor glanced at Brendan, and then back at her, a shadow falling over his face and clouding his normally brilliant gray eyes.

"It is the prophecy, Elowyn," he told her, gravely. "It is the prophecy, and the past.  Years ago, before you were ever born, there was a seer that foretold the coming of the One who would herald the doom of evil – you know this.  It is _you_.  But even before this, there was a Darkness on the lands that served a Queen of the most evil caliber: the Ebony Queen, who makes her throne in the Black City, far across the Sea from the Known World, at one of the Dark Gates.  And this darkness, the one that served her, was the dread lord of Sytherria."

Orandor was silent for a long, horrible moment.

Then he uttered the name that had not been spoken inside of the walls of Avalennon, or in the White Realm in its entirety, for countless thousands of years.

"He was Jaedin: _S'ríth-Anstarinaor n'et Sytherria_, the Dark Lord of Sytherria…and now He has returned."

"War is coming." Brendan murmured.

_Yes indeed – war is coming…_

_A great thing indeed that you now see it…_

_The Darkness lives again._

*                       *                       *

**Author's Note**:  Sooo…what do you think?  Please review and let me know – as for the moment, here's another addition to the cast list…

Brendan: Alan Rickman

The Queen: Lara Flynn Boyle

Jaedin, the Dark Lord of Sytherria: That, my dear friends, is my own secret.  You will simply have to wait to find out!

Orlando: Jude Law

Arielle: Alicia Silverstone


	6. Authoress's Note, Part II

– Part II –

Sytherria

Now, in this, part the second of our perilous tale, we learn that what is evil is truly evil, and that it will always find its retribution in the wrath of good…

_"Little Red Riding Hood had not gone far when she came upon a wolf.  Not knowing what a wicked creature her was, she gave him a friendly greeting and told him she was going to visit her grandmother on the other side of the woods._

_When the wolf heard this, he was pleased, for he was very hungry and now he could look forward to two delicious meals: Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother.  But he was a clever wolf, and was careful not to alarm the child._

_Instead, he walked along beside her and spoke in a soft voice.  'Isn't the forest lovely today?' he said. 'Look at all the beautiful flowers!  It would be a pity to hurry past them…' "_

And so, with words as sweet as honey and a voice as soft as spun silk, the wolf beguiles and seduces Little Red Riding Hood into straying off of the path, and into the dark forest – straight into the clutches of a most terrible doom, we might well say…For huntsmen will not always arrive to the rescue in the nick of time, and the wolf who roams the dark forest is many a time much more clever and cunning than we give him credit for…

But come along now – don't look so afraid!  Here: here is my hand.  Take it, and together we will venture deeper into this twisted forest.  Hurry along though, lest we lose sight of Red – she is already much further ahead of us than I would like her to be.  Quick!

_(And never fear, my friends!  For all good faery tales will never fail to feature a truly shiver-inducing haunted forest full of creepy specters and shadows – but going in pairs never fails.)_


	7. Chapter Five

Chapter Five –

Embroidery Lesson

Elowyn watched a big, fat lazy bumblebee drift leisurely from one huge, brightly coloured enchanted flower to the next: casually perusing first a tangerine blossom and then one of pale, shy lavender and shocking, electric blue.  The exceedingly bored faery princess could barely sustain herself from giving out one gigantic, jaw-cracking yawn right then and there.  She almost fancied that she could hear the hum of the bee's steady, monotone buzzing.

Right at the moment, she was sitting in a very small, very dainty and ornate gilt-gold chair: perched precariously on top of it, looking for all the world as if she might be a marble statue on top of a pedestal.  

A statue laced up in a huge, fluffy abomination of peach-hued satin, stiff gold lace, and chafing, immaculate white tulle: her hair done up in a net with pins that stuck her scalp and made her head itch, with perspiration-inducing white gloves and foot-pinching high-heeled slippers, that is.

These were _not_ her favorite days.

Calligraphy, dancing, and table etiquette lessons she had learnt quite well how to escape from; embroidery lessons with the Marchioness Yvaliya were not so easy to get out of.  The Marchioness, unlike Elowyn's other tutor, Magister Feyderon, did _not_ have an abnormally great love of food and the banquet hall, and she had managed somehow to keep an extremely sharp eye on her newest student, the 'wayward princess', from the first day of lessons.  

Elowyn was three weeks into this latest course of her lady's education and she was beginning to rapidly despair ever making an escape from its tedium.  Yvaliya's eyes were simply too sharp, and they were ever focused, however discreetly, on her young charge.

That day, after the noon luncheon, the Marchioness had announced that her group – about thirty of the ladies of the court at Avalennon, most of whom were among Vahlada's personal attendants – would adjourn to the ornamental gardens on the south-eastern side of the castle.  Elowyn was compelled to go along as well, for her lesson, and she went reluctantly.  Her reluctance only grew when the Marchioness, seeing the princess's scholarly and informal attire, gasped loudly and turned to the girl's mother, imploring the Lady Vahlada to have her daughter change into something more suitable.  _Call it a life-long grudge._

And now, here she was: glued to the top of her teetering chair, an embroidery hoop full of knots, tangles, and horrible wrecks of needle and thread locked in her hands, as Yvaliya eyed her skeptically out of the corner of her vision.  Elowyn ducked her head, bending over her work more closely so that – perhaps, just maybe – the ostentatious and rather vocal Marchioness would not come bustling over to her and then, using the princess's disastrous work, make a public demonstration of how spider-roses should _not_ be done.  

The hot afternoon sun was beating down mercilessly onto her head, in spite of the delicate silken canopy that had been set up to provide shade for the ladies while they worked, and the bit of breeze that blew through the garden every once in a while did hardly anything to ease the sweltering heat.  The awful gown and undergarments that she had been forced to change into were causing her all sorts of agony.  

Elowyn sat up a bit, flexing her aching shoulders, and then bent over her work again – and felt a drop of sweat roll down the back of her neck.

Sea-green eyes narrowed furtively – murderously – at Marchioness Yvaliya.

_I _will_ escape from you._

But right at the moment, there was no such chance.  

_Poke the needle in, draw it out, cross over this thread, pull that other one – no wait, rip that one out, that's not right, oh!  Lovely!  Now there's a hole in the bloody canvas.  _

Ladies' chatter and laughter from around her: she was reminded of geese in a barnyard.

Buzzzzz, went the insects in the garden.   ZzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZ.

Another drop of sweat rolled down her neck.

Elowyn pricked her finger.

Mental cursing.

"Oh, and did you hear about the Lord Rhiadore and Countess Laurel…"

Someone plucked out a few random notes on a lute, somewhere in the garden.

"What a lovely stitch!  However did you learn it?"

"This?  Oh, I picked it up when I was visiting the court at…"

BuzzzzzZZZZZ.

_I am going to go _mad_._

"Psst!  Elowyn!"

She started at the sudden hiss from behind her but quickly relaxed, as the voice hastily added, "No, don't react!  She'll mark it."

Elowyn obeyed and pretended to be putting her full concentration into working on her embroidery again.  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of two darkly attired figures, which crouched just a few feet below the terrace upon which the embroidery group was seated.  

Speaking in a lowered voice, trying not to move her lips, she asked, "How did you two manage to sneak in here?  And what are you doing here anyway – trying to torture me because I'm stuck with this and you've got your freedom?"

A low chuckle from behind her, and then the silky voice of her cousin informed her, "Never, fair Princess. We've come to attempt a valiant rescue of our beloved playmate."

Elowyn almost laughed out loud, in spite of the danger of doing so.  

Sunlit-jade eyes brimming with mirth, she retorted, while keeping a watchful eye on Yvaliya, who did not as of yet know that both Robbie and Sala were hiding in the carefully-kept bushes and holding conversation with the princess, "And how do you plan on doing that?  She's been watching me like a hawk all afternoon – and I don't think she'll take kindly to you two swooping in here and disrupting things, and then, on top of that, demanding that I be set free.  No indeed, my friends: I don't think that she would enjoy that at _all_."

She knew why they'd come for her – that night was to be the very first of a month-long celebration of Robbie's parents' anniversary, and all the country would be dancing with merriment and all manner of festivals, balls, and other modes of parties.  Elowyn had attended these since she had been allowed to roam about with her nephew and cousin, without a chaperon: which had started when she was fourteen and fully in charge of her enchantress's abilities.

But now, with the changes in her daily schedule…

She cast a longing eye across the shaded space underneath the canopy.  Yvaliya was still marching back and forth between the pastel rows of diligently embroidering ladies, looking as if she might just be some sort of Grand General Brigadier.  Escape would be difficult to attain, even if she could run at all in her stupid gown and slippers.

"What do you suggest I do?"

Robbie's ice-blue eyes sparkled as he exchanged glances with Sala, who smirked devilishly.  

"I'm certain you'll think of something," he replied.

Elowyn sat for a moment longer, watching Yvaliya's ostentatious butterfly figure move back and forth in front of her, and then her lips curved in a sly smile.

Dropping her embroidery onto the chair and rising to her feet at the same moment, she placed one hand to her collarbones and called out, loudly: "_Oh_!  Arin, Orlando!  And my lord Prince Skye!  Whatever allows us this pleasure?"

Instantly, her little ploy took the exact effect she had known it would.  

At the mention of what the feminine half of the faery court favored as the two most gorgeous noblemen, Arin and Orlando, and the famously handsome Elven Prince Skye, every single one of the ladies present dropped everything where they were and looked to where Elowyn had pointed. Chaos and pandemonium ensued as each lady scrambled to be the first to either catch a glimpse of or speak to the three gentlemen; the Marchioness was hit by a mad rush out from underneath the canopy and her desperate commands for peace and order went completely unheard.

Meanwhile, Elowyn grabbed fistfuls of her monstrous skirt and blazed out of the garden as fast as her feet could carry her, Robbie and Sala running close behind.  

Not until they had reached the tower that Elowyn's room was at the crown of did they stop; and when they did, all three collapsed against the stones and had a good, long laugh.  

Robbie was the first to speak, still laughing so hard that his extraordinary blue eyes had tears of mirth in them.  "Fates – Sala, Elowyn, did you _see_ them?  You'd think that the Seven Powers of the World had just showed up unexpectedly for tea!"

"Yes…the Seven Powers of the World being your father, Orlando, and Prince Skye!" cackled Elowyn, wrapping her arms around her middle to keep herself from laughing so hard that a seam in her gown would split.  

"Who would have known – my father, a court heartthrob!"

"Poor Arin…and poor Orlando…and poor,_ poor_ Prince Skye!" gasped Sala.

Elowyn shook her head, still giggling, and then she turned her eyes up to the open windows of her bedchamber.  Thoughtful now, she mused, "I'm going to have to find a good way to get up there now, aren't I?  'Tis a pity I didn't leave any of that enchanted rope down in the bushes here."

And she kicked petulantly at one of the aforementioned evergreens.

Then, "Well, one's got to start somewhere.  Look away, Robbie."

He obeyed, and Elowyn got Sala to give her a boost up, so that she could grab onto one of the thick vines of the ivy that grew all over the wall, up to her room's seven windows.  

"_Umph_!  Stupid…grumble grumble…flipping…grumble grumble…_argh_!"

Sala raised a hand to shade her eyes and took a step back, watching her cousin's progress up the wall.  "You sure that you don't want me to go in and throw down some rope?"

A sound of irritation from Elowyn – towards the ivy.

"Bloody—no, thank you, Sala, but the same principle goes for _you_ as for _me_: if anybody saw me going inside right now, they'd know that something was up, for I wouldn't be at lessons.  If they saw you, they'd reach the same conclusions."

"Hence, you climb the wall," from Robbie.

"Prince Robeneron, I believe that I told you to take your eyes somewhere else.  Now do as I've said, or I'll throw one of these nasty slippers at you."

Robbie grinned.

"Amazing princess."

"That's enough from _you_.  Ugh – this blasted tulle stuff must weigh about two hundred pounds!  I can hardly move my legs in it!"

"I'm surprise you haven't mentioned the sleeves yet," remarked Sala.

"Those ripped a long time ago," came Elowyn's muffled voice.  Then, from the window ledge, "All right, I'm inside.  Go fetch your mounts – and Orpheus – and we'll be off.  I'll be out in two blinks of a sphinx's eye."

Robbie and Sala turned and went off to do as she bade them, and Elowyn hauled herself through the window and into her room.  

There, she left the wrinkled, torn, sweat- and dirt-stained gown laid out on the bed, along with her petticoats, corset, stockings, and various other underwear.  There was nothing that a little faery magic couldn't easily remedy when it came to clothing; often, in fact, the materials were so infused with magic and enchantment that they tended to repair themselves.  And so Elowyn didn't worry terribly much about the damage that she had done to the gown – she had a feeling that it had liked her just about as much as she had liked it, and even now, she could just imagine it glaring at her, if it had had eyes to glare with, while she changed.

Swiftly she transformed herself, once again, from unwilling court beauty into the adventurer princess that she was more widely known as, and then she scrambled across her bed, leaned out onto the windowsill, and put two fingers to her lips.  

At her shrill, strong whistle, there was a sound of huge wings beating the air: steadily, rhythmically, and within moments, her dun-coloured Pegasus stallion was at the window, huffing with flared nostrils as he tossed his sea-foam mane.  Elowyn grinned.

"Let's off to Lærelin then, shall we, old boy?"

And she deposited herself with perfect cat-like ease into the gem-ridden saddle of her dearest equine friend, and together they swooped off to find their other companions, thence to ride through the forests of the White Realm, cross the magical border, and at last come to the whimsical and happy kingdom of Lærelin.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Please r&r, I beg you!  I'm dying from lack of response to my poor story…  (My most ardent thanks to those of you who have reviewed so far, however – you all know I LUV you!)


	8. Chapter Six

Chapter Six – 

The Horrific Clash of Light and Dark

That evening, at twilight, a group of faeries, Elves, mortals, and other young Sentients – all within the range of fifteen to eighteen years of age – having finished their obligations to parents and other miscellaneous guardians at the banquet held in honour of Lærelin's king and queen, had run off into the gardens surrounding the capitol palace.  Together, this group of fifty or so, headed by the crown prince Robeneron himself, had made the decision to play a round of Shadow-Sweepers.  

Shadow-Sweepers was a long-time favorite of the magical faeries and Elves, and now, in the past few hundred years or so, the mortals had begun to catch on.  

It was played thus: a prize – usually a bejeweled globe or something of that sort – was hidden in 'The Keep'.  Each person present was named a 'Shadow-Sweeper', which basically meant that they all had to run around, every man for himself, trying to avoid being caught and tagged, with an enchanted burst of sparkling powder that glowed quite clearly even in the dead of night, by any other player.  

Occasionally, groups would form alliances amongst themselves, in hopes of increasing their chances of both not getting caught and finding the prize.  A lone player had to be very careful in his search, therefore, because these alliances could turn out to be quite wily, and some players would resort to anything, any kind of ruse or trick, in order to win.      

It was widely understood that this game was meant purely for the youthful at heart, in spirit, and especially in form, for it required no small amount of running around, bending oneself almost double in order to avoid 'capture' by one's rivals, wriggling into unbelievable positions, climbing up trees, scaling walls, and crawling on all fours, to name a few.

Elowyn had returned to the room that she was sharing with Sala during her visit, and changed out of the outfit that she had worn to the banquet, after kissing both her sister and her brother-in-law in sisterly devotion, and wishing them every kind of happiness on their anniversary, and for the rest of their lives.  Now, garbed quite smartly and almost invisibly in a black tunic, breeches, with boots and a knee-length hooded black cloak to match, a scarf all-but hiding her face, she stole furtively through the trees that were to be found in the area of the gardens that they were playing in.  From further off, she saw – but more often _heard_ – the game going on around her.  

Shadowy figures dashed across the darkened, dewy lawn: one near to her cried out and came to an abrupt stop, having been tagged by another player.  Suddenly, a burst of glittering blue sparks went up in the darkness, and she detected a faint smell of the powder on the air.  More shrieks, calls, and crashing noises came through the air to her, including a sudden shriek of, "Sala – no!  _Tickling is not allowed_!"

Knowing that she was out of both sight and hearing range of her fellow players, Elowyn decided that she was going to keep her record of winning at Shadow-Sweepers, and so, softly, her voice barely a murmur, she said a few words in faery and made some gestures in the air.

Suddenly, a volley of gigantic, thunderous firework explosions went off in the air above the castle, and shouts of, "Oh no!  The grand finale's started!" "Blast it, now we're going to be late for the speech!  Mum and Dad're going to _kill_ us!" "Run!" went up in the area.

Elowyn smiled gleefully to herself, knowing that her trick had worked, and began to run for the woods, the white light of her searching spell streaking on ahead of her into the darkness.  Booted feet noiseless in the carpet of grass that covered the wide-open lawn that she was striving to get across without being noticed, she moved quickly, without once looking behind herself.

*                       *                       *

Meanwhile, Robbie – who had not been present for Elowyn's pseudo-firework show – had been met by the mad dash of his friends and guests as they raced to get to the amphitheatre that the evening's final events: the speeches of his parents, their Cabinet, and others, were being held in.  With great presence of mind, he stepped back just in time to avoid being trampled onto the marble terrace.

"Hey, steady on now – what's the rush?" he asked, a look of confusion on his handsome young face as he glanced at Sala for clarification.  "It's not time for us to go in yet, is it?"

"No, but apparently _someone_ decided to make everyone think it is," was his cousin's sardonic reply, and she gestured with one hand towards the gardens: drawing Robbie's attention to the slender, dark figure that was now dashing pell-mell, helter-skelter, for the hiding place of the prize.

"_Oi_!" Robbie shouted, sliding out of his normal cultured royal speech and into the common vernacular. "Elowyn's cheating!  _Elowyn_!"

And with that, he took off after the girl, Sala close on his heels.

*                       *                       *

Elowyn laughed maniacally to herself when she heard the crashing footsteps and frustrated old-fashioned faery-language cursing of her nephew and the laughter of their cousin as they chased after her, through the woods.  They wouldn't catch her now though – not unless she let them.  She had too much of a head start.

She hid behind a tree for a moment: let them run by her, and then she dashed out from her concealment and passed by them, laughing, and slid down a steep hill, into the small valley beneath it, scattering leaves, dirt, and sticks as she went.  

Leaping to her feet, she dashed on again, not once glancing back as she heard Robbie and Sala's chaotic progress down that same hill.

Then, all at once, a clearing in the trees came up before her, and then there the concentrated white light of her searching spell was, right before her, indicating the resting place of that which she sought.  

Elowyn now finally looked behind herself.  

Robbie and Sala were still a little ways off.  Suddenly, however, she didn't feel like winning any more.  She crossed into the center of the clearing and dismantled the searching spell.  It went out like a candle, with the noise of a soft hissing breeze, and its glimmering light faded until it simply ceased to exist.  

And then the forest was quiet around her: she could hear nothing but the noises of nighttime in the woodlands, with its music of crickets, cicadas, and nightingales, and the wind winding gently through the branches. Above her, through the interlocked branches of the trees, some of the velvety night sky glimpsed through, tiny pinprick stars shining here and there like diamonds.  The air was warm, but not overtly humid: comfortable and familiar, with its scent of pine and earth.

Elowyn sighed.

*                       *                       *

"_Fair maidens should fear the dark…_"__

Elowyn jumped.

She whirled around, staring into the shadowy trees with widened eyes: a brief flash of apprehension going through her eyes.  The air seemed as if it had just gone a few degrees colder…

No.

"Elowyn!" Laughter and more crashing noises from within the woods. "Elowyn – come on now, where are you hiding?  You've already established the fact that you'll win at all costs!"

Her lips opened to make a reply to that.

No sound came forth.  Somehow, she couldn't make herself speak – or move, for that matter.

"I'm imagining things."

But all the same, she began to back up: very slowly, almost imperceptibly.  She bent her knees a little, leaning backwards a bit, fingers outstretched – searching for something…  There – the huge faery-created diamond that they had been using for the prize in the game that evening: a gem so large that many wealthy noblemen would have given their eyeteeth, _at least_, to own.

The forest seemed as if it had – as if it was – growing darker around her, contracting, closing in around her like a vice.  She felt as if her skin was beginning to crawl, icy shivers of some nameless, unfamiliar fear racing through her body, threatening to overwhelm her mind with panic.

"_Who's afraid of the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf…_" 

She sang the old nursery rhyme softly, under her breath: tauntingly, almost.  There was nothing in these woods that could harm her – not so near to the White Realm, and Elladine and Arin's castle, at that.  _No specter of the Dark Realm would dare come so near…_

All the same, however, she gathered the diamond into her palm.

Then: that same strange, inescapable and unrecognizable voice invaded her mind again, laughing at her softly, and then hissing into her head so that she could not banish it from her senses—

"_Don't play with fire, little one…_"

Elowyn straightened and looked about herself.  She took a step backwards, thinking, but suddenly knowing that it was too late: _Robbie, Sala – where _are_ you?_

Still, the darkness seemed to grow deeper, and close in around her… 

*                       *                       *

Robbie stopped running suddenly, a bit winded, and cast about himself.  Sweat was streaking down his forehead, plastering a few strands of hair to his skin.  The forest seemed as if it had just gotten colder, and his skin felt as if it was crawling, although he knew not why…

"Sala…" he said, his voice very quiet. "Where is she?  I saw her in that clearing just up ahead…and now it's gone."

His cousin was silent at his side.  

All was still…

Suddenly – a huge, bat-like shadow came ripping through the trees, a shadow that was darker than the darkness, which hit the two young faeries like a shockwave after an earthquake, whirling them both around and nearly knocking them off of their feet.  Robbie's eyes were huge as he stared, agape with horror, after it.  "What is that thing?" he breathed.

But somehow they both already knew – _it was evil._

"_Elowyn_!"

They ran.

*                       *                       *

Elowyn stopped where she was.

There was _Something_ behind her.

Her fingers tightened around the diamond…and then she heard movement, from somewhere in the undergrowth at her back: the scrape of a horse-hoof in the dirt, the barest creak of a saddle, of leather, breathing…she could feel eyes on the back of her head…

Fast as she could, she whirled around and threw the diamond with all her might.  Then, pivoting on the same foot once more, she turned back 'round and ran: ran for all she was worth.  She heard the diamond hit metal, or something metallic, with a clang, and there was a noise of enragement – she ran faster – she saw two familiar figures hurtling towards her through the trees, heard them call out her name – "_Elowyn_!" – something huge and heavy, which moved with terrifying silence and speed, was bearing down on her—

_No!_

Suddenly, a gigantic, coal-black horse, with eyes that burned with a blood-red fire, wheeled around in front of her.  

Elowyn stopped herself, staring at it with widened eyes that then traveled up to the helmeted head of the figure upon the creature's back; then she turned and tried to run—

A blast of something cold – freezing – electric, hit her in the back of the head, like a scimitar.  She made it two steps further before she felt her body begin to numb, to freeze.  She fell to the ground.  Complete silence.  Then, sharp, black hooves came into her blurring vision, stopping before her.  There was a whooshing sound – like wind moving very quickly, or – rather – someone dismounting, a creak of leather…and then a pair of armored black boots appeared, directly before her, inches from her face.  

_She was fading, fading from reality…  _

Robbie and Sala's wild, heartbroken screams – "_Elowyn_!"

Then everything went black.

*                       *                       *

Robbie and Sala stopped short, in horror, when the rider in black suddenly disappeared...taking Elowyn with him.  They couldn't make themselves move – they could only gape in absolute terror.

Finally—

"Back to the castle!" Robbie gasped. "_Now_!"

*                       *                       *

A/N:  *chuckles to self*  Such a bad boy…  Oh.  Ahem.  Sorry, ladies and gents.  Anywho, please review and let me know what you think of the latest events set forth here, etc. etc. etc., and perhaps soon I will introduce you to Evyrworld's mysterious resident Dark Lord, Jaedin of Sytherria.

And now, on to see if we can follow Elowyn and her kidnapper into the next perilous adventure…

@{------------------------   


	9. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven –

Surrounded by the Darkness

Nightmares plagued Elowyn's unconscious, until she finally awakened, an indeterminable amount of time later.  Feeling slow of movement and perception, as if she had been heavily drugged, she raised one hand and put the back of it to her forehead, eyes remaining closed.  

_Something is wrong…___

Briefly, she gathered the strength within herself, lying still, to summon her powers to her, and harness them once more.  They felt as if they were strangely weak, however, as did she.  

What had happened?  Her head was full of a peculiar, dull, pounding pain, and her entire body felt as if it was one huge ache…  

Then, as she lay there, not knowing where she was or how she had come to be there, or who might be with her, she began to recollect, to try to remember.  

Slowly, the memory surfaced.  

She saw a flash of the scene of herself and her friends playing a game – Shadow-Sweepers, she remembered; it had been at night, and she'd run into the forest.  But then something had chased her.  Something had chased her?  Why?  And how?  Nothing with evil intentions could or even _would_ dare to come so close to the faeries…so why…

_Fair maidens should fear the dark…_

All at once, as if that ghostly, horrible voice had spoken directly to her, straight into her mind once again, Elowyn felt a jolt of fear – involuntary terror – go through her entire frame, and her eyes flew open: for the first time.  

And what did she see around herself?  

Her prison.

She was lying on a huge bed, all of which was of foreboding, austere and rather gothic black and silver, from the four thick posts, to the canopy that hung above her, to the sheets that had somehow become tangled around the lower half of her body as she'd slept.  Slept?  Or lain comatose?  

Just thinking about that horrific jolt of power – or whatever it was – that had gone through her frame, rendering her helpless to run, to fight back, made her head whirl.  Exactly whom was she dealing with?

The bed took up about a quarter of the room, which was – in and of itself – alarmingly large, and rather empty as well, but for her aforementioned resting place and a long, silver-black table and two throne-like chairs that had been placed at either end of it.  Each of the three pieces looked as if only a brace of war-horses might be able to move them.  Elowyn eyed them with apprehension.  

Obviously, her captor – whomever he was – had a distinctly dark sense of interior design.  Everything that she saw around her was of black or silver, spiky and razor-sharp, with gargoyle faces leering at her here and there, watching her every move.  

The faery princess sent them a cold, defiant glare, not to be frightened by conventional scare-tactics.  Her captor would have to do a lot better than that if he wanted to cow her into submission.  Which he couldn't, without some doing.

Becoming a bit bolder as her strength and wits returned to her, Elowyn pushed back the sheets that had been drawn up over her and swung her legs around so that they stretched straight out in front of her.  

Someone had taken away her muddied and torn tunic, breeches, boots, and cloak, and now she wore some absurdly wispy, insubstantial black silk gown with skirts that draped down to her ankles, an empire-waist, cowl-neck, and no sleeves.  Her hair was sliding in its unruly, long pale blonde curls over her shoulders, like slippery golden snakes.  

Elowyn frowned.  

This little bit of nothing that she'd been dressed in was not only a _gown_, but also just plain _insipid_.  What kind of person did her captors think she was?  The slit that had been cut in the skirt, just to the side of her leg, reached almost up to her hip.  

After reaching up to tie her hair back with the fastener that she'd left on her wrist, she got out of the bed and walked into the center of the room.  The walls of black malachite reached up to a concave ceiling, with ribs of grim, silvery granite meeting each other at its zenith, and the floors were made of black marble, streaked with silver veins, very cold on her bare feet.  

Even the air in the room was chill, causing her to shiver a bit as she continued her progress across the floor.  Directly to her left, but more in front of her, was a large, rectangular window, framed with thick black stone with heavy draperies of shroud-like material to match, and to this she went.  A tiny little balcony let her out of the dark chamber, and now, standing upon it, she looked out over the realm of her captor.

For as far as her eyes could see, there was nothing but an endless, winding maze: a gigantic labyrinth full of shadows, twists, and turns, its walls made of thick stone and it pathways composed of shimmering sand.  Very faintly, if she squinted her eyes a good bit, she could see rolling hills of sand: vast and far-off, and at the very edge of the horizon, something sent a sudden beam of light into her eyes – like the sun, glinting off of the top of distant rooftops.  She couldn't tell.

But whatever it was, it was not anywhere near her.  The labyrinth that surrounded the enormous, spike-lined tower that she was trapped within was simply much too large, too vast.  She'd never get anywhere fast by walking, and it seemed as if this was the only way she could escape, if such a thing were even possible.  

Somehow, she doubted it was.  

There was nothing close by, for miles, it seemed, but the winding passages of the maze, the tower itself, and the unending dome of the sky above her head, which was tainted a strangely feral, menacing orange and red, which made the walls look as if they'd been stained with blood.

_She was in the middle of nowhere, with no one…lost in the sands of what appeared to be a boundless desert…_

A hot, arid wind swept around the side of the tower, coming up to meet her and twine around her head, neck, and shoulders, stirring her flimsy gown as if in assessment of the tower's small captive.  Elowyn found herself both repulsed and annoyed by the view out her one window, and left the balcony, disgusted in some strange, inexplicable way.

On her return into her dark, cold chamber, she now noted that there was indeed a _door_ placed in the wall opposite the bed, almost hidden beneath a heavy black and silver tapestry.  Taking one of the long black taper candles from the heavy silver candelabra that sat on the table, she murmured a few words in faery: a fire-lighting spell.  

Nothing happened – however, she could sense a pulling at the forces of magic that she could sense, faintly, in the air, as if whatever traces of enchantment-power that had been blown to this desolate place had felt themselves summoned by her spell, and wanted to do as she bade them, but couldn't.  Then, at last, with much effort, the wick on the candle sparked, and a tiny flame grew into being.  Elowyn decided that her captor had put some sort of magic-inhibiting spell on her prison, which allowed her to use her powers, but only just.  

Trying anything drastic would probably hurt, she observed.

Still.  She had an irresistible urge to see what else there was to this prison of hers.  

Now, at this time, it must be noted that most maidens of her age – seventeen –, and circumstances – a princess with a prophesy hanging over her head, and, ultimately, her destiny, who'd just been kidnapped by Fates-knew-what kind of creature – would have been so utterly terrified out of their wits that they would have been rendered unable to do anything with themselves.  

Elowyn, however, was obviously not the typical maiden-princess.  She'd been in some very bad situations before, and she'd learnt many lessons from what bruises and scrapes she'd gotten from them.  She was also an adventurer at heart, and who among her acquaintances could call her the type of damsel-in-distress who would faint dead away and beg, in tears, for mercy from a suit of armor?  She was more likely, her mother and tutors had always said, to sit down and engage any opponent or would-be captor of hers in a fearsome battle of the wits before challenging him to a duel, or tricking him so that she could make her escape.  And, in many previous cases, she'd won three times out of four.

_Although she somehow sensed that this time would not be like the others…_

The door opened into a long, dark stairway that wound round and round the tower, taking one down, down, and down until one had reached ground-level.  Elowyn stopped.  Something here was not right.  There was no door – no visible restraints of any sort to keep anyone imprisoned inside from getting out.  

She peered cautiously into the still, shadow-streaked labyrinth passageway that awaited her just outside the doorway.  

A little whirlwind swirled around the corner of a wall that she couldn't see, stirring up the sand and making little eddies in the passage floor.  It sounded like both a soft, laughing little hiss, and a gusting sigh.  What could be out there?

Well.  She'd just have to chance it.

And – stepping forward—

_Zzzrak!_

A blinding flash of green light suddenly shot out of the doorframe, hitting her on all sides, and Elowyn felt a horrid, numbing jolt go through her body – as if she'd just been struck by lightning.  Her fingers lost their power, causing her to drop the candle she'd carried down with her for light, and her mind began to freeze.  _Oh bloody flipping underworlds!  Not_ again_…_

And she was once more lost to the blackness.

*                       *                       *

The pale, defiant figure of the young, audacious faery princess fell softly to the ground; she landed with a faint noise of complaint, and then was silent.  The swirling winds in the labyrinth whirled on their way, passing by her and investigating her long, unruly light gold curls that had been flung out on the sand.  

She was silent.

A black-robed figure, which had watched the whole scene unfolding before him while standing around the corner of a wall, perfectly out of her sight but well within range of _seeing her_, then finally roused himself and came across the space, moving towards her: his long, full-cut cloak billowing in the hot gusts of wind that traversed that desert land.  He knelt beside her, with movements of fluid, stealthy grace, and effortlessly gathered the girl into his arms.

Then, with a shake of his hooded head – condescending, but not at all pitying: amused, almost – he turned and mounted the steps into the tower, carrying her back inside.

*                       *                       *

Elowyn awakened strangely, with the memory of how she'd often fallen asleep, when she was very little, on a quilt spread out on the grass, underneath the shade of the glorious, spreading branches of an apple tree.  Her mother, Vahlada, would have been reclining beside her, one arm draped about her sleeping child's body, to reassure and calm her even as she dreamt.  She remembered well the feeling of the warm, sun-dappled shadows falling upon her face, as the breeze gently stirred the branches above her head and made the leaves dance merrily.  Songbirds chirped and faeries laughed and called to one another throughout the gardens; there was music, strummed on ethereal instruments…

But this was not a garden, this cool, smooth surface that she lay upon; nor was the everlasting hiss of desert winds that she heard the singing of bluebirds or the music of laughter and gaiety – and the arm that had somehow become draped over her waist, drawing her ever closer, ever more possessively, into someone's hard, warm, gently heaving and then residing chest—

That arm was definitely _not_ her mother's.

Elowyn's sea-green eyes narrowed dangerously, until they became mere glittering slits in her face, through which she stared at the black sheets before her.

She could faintly recall – from unconscious, unintentional and half-aware memory – the feeling of someone moving to stand beside her, and then arms sliding artfully beneath her, lifting her off of the sandy ground and positioning her against a hard, sloping surface.

Then, nothing.

Back to the present.  The Someone who was with her was lying curved against her, knees touching the back of hers, chest fitting into the hollow of her back.  She could feel his every breath, his every inhale and exhale, and the warmth of him was seeping into her skin.  He was uncomfortably – _disturbingly_ – close.  And his arm, she now noticed, bore a chain and shackles, which connected to one on her own wrist.  

Elowyn bit back a shrill, enraged scream.

Not only had she been reduced to keeping a bedroom-mate: apparently, he'd also seen the necessity of putting her in chains!  As if locking her up in a _thoroughly enchanted tower_ hadn't been enough to begin with!

Well, that settled it.  It was the middle of the day now, instead of sunset, which meant that she couldn't try to make an escape with any hope of success, if she hadn't had this person – this creature! – lying asleep beside her.  _Probably just waiting for me to wake up and make a move,_ she thought, cynically.  _Then he'd straighten up proper-quick and it'd all be over for me._

And she indulged in some less-than-lady-like mental phraseology for a moment.

Her eyes focused back on the chain and shackles that were now on her wrist, then, and suddenly, all of her inner resolve and will to be brave somehow hopelessly dissolved.  

Wherever she was, and however she had gotten there, she was in all likeliness far from her father, and her mother, and all of her beloved sisters, brothers, and family, and friends – and she had no one to turn to, no way to escape, no other alternative than to just sit where she was and wait for her beastly captors to drag her into whatever place they wanted and give her the cruel truth of what they wanted of her.  Or whatever else they had seen fit as reason to kidnap her for.

The faery princess's eyes filled with hot, scalding tears of rightful fright, uncertainty, and desperation – and then they became tears of rage, as waves of tingling coldness swept over her. 

How dare they do this to her!  How could they think that she would let them get away with kidnapping her, stealing her away from her family, her home, and all that she knew and loved?  There was one thing that she was sure of, at that very moment, and that one thing became her single most drastic and determined resolution for the entirety of her imprisonment…

She was going to get out.

And she was going to give them a world of trouble until she did.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Yes, indeed – Elowyn is not at all like the heroines of her friends and family who came before her in this series.  It's most enjoyable to write about her: "Actually, it's rather liberating – don't you think?", to borrow the line from Guy Pierce's despicable Fernand Mondego of _The Count of Monte Cristo_.  (That is such a good movie…I love it to no end.)

Anyways, do be so kind as to leave a review for me after you've read this.  I'd so much appreciate it.  ^_^  Oh – and if anyone is curious as to any point of this story: family ties, races, creatures, places, and such, do let me know, and I shall send you via e-mail the Index of Evyrworld that I made up to go along with the series… 


	10. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight –

Fencing Words With the Darkness

Forcing herself to sleep through the rest of the day, and then the whole of the night that followed after it, was torment enough to put the imprisoned faery princess into a severely bad mood.  And the time that she didn't spend literally squeezing her eyes shut and willing sleep to come, she spent thinking up some startlingly_ appalling_ names to affix to her captor.

By the time that dawn finally rolled around: the sun tingeing the far-off hills of sand, the pale walls of the labyrinth, and the spike-lined black tower with delicate pastel hues of apricot, gold, and lavender, a few wispy clouds of smoky blue blowing into the azure sky, Elowyn had decided fully upon simply making all effort possible to get out of the bed, no matter _what_ the cost.

Which may or may not have been the best choice that she could have made.

*                       *                       *

The room was silent and still, faintly lit by the pale, cold light of dawn.  Elowyn shivered, her bare skin breaking into goose bumps where it was exposed to the chill air inside the chamber.  It was like sleeping in a tomb, she reflected, in the surprisingly calm quietness.

She slowly turned her head then.

It was the first time that she had made a move with any part of her body since her last awakening, and now she finally glimpsed something of her mysterious companion.  

He – or _it_, whatever – was lying on his side, one arm resting on the pillow, underneath his head: his fingertips, the hands of which were gloved in black leather, nearly brushing the crown of her head.  From simple observation, she gathered that he was quite tall; his legs stretched out at least a full foot and a half past hers.  He was also quite muscular – the chest that her bare shoulder blades were touching was rock-hard, and she could feel the rippling cords of muscles in the arm that was about her waist even through the layers of heavy, thick black material that made up his obscuring robes.  There was a hood over his head, and she could catch a glimpse of dull black iron where a chin might have been.  

And he was still sleeping: deeply, noiselessly, and without movement, but for his breathing.  Elowyn wondered just what kind of person he was underneath all of those robes.

_But she wasn't going to wait around for the chance to find out._

Slowly – ever so infinitesimally slowly – and cautiously, she slid her right leg out from underneath her left, reaching with her toes towards the edge of the mattress.  Doing so, simply moving that limb the mere two feet to the edge of the bed, seemed to take centuries.  She found that she was unconsciously biting her full bottom lip, a cold sweat on her forehead.  Holding her breath, she ceased to move.  Had he felt her movement?  No – nothing.

Exulting of her success but still no less cautious, she now moved her left leg over, which caused her to roll over onto her stomach.  _Inch by inch, keep it slow; there you go, girl – keep it nice and steady, there's a girl…_

Her shoulders moved forward next: her bedmate's arm sliding painstakingly off of her waist.  The edge of the bed was getting nearer now, so tantalizingly nearer…

_No!  Steady now – slowly!_

She crept her arm across the bed, inching herself up off of the mattress—

And, of course, predictably, the inevitable worst-thing happened: she heard a masculine throat softly clear itself, from behind her, stopping her where she was, and she turned, slowly, as one who had found herself trapped in a waking nightmare would, her mermaid-like eyes moving from the window: through which her freedom awaited her, tauntingly…

…To the black-cloaked figure behind her, who was sitting up halfway, one elbow propped on the mountainous pillow that his head had rested on not moments before: free hand, on which there were the shackles that bound her to him, drumming fingertips lightly on the black sheets.  Watching her.  Just sitting there, and watching her.  As if he were amused.  Waiting.

"You've slept well, I hope?" 

The voice that spoke to her was deep and strangely resonant: not at all the dry, cold voice that had addressed her in the garden, through the dark…  Elowyn cleared off the terrifying memory of that, sitting on that edge of the bed so that she was halfway turned towards him, her own hand resting on top of the black sheets.  

She regarded the black figure that reclined so leisurely and nonchalantly, with cool self-assurance in his air, on the pillows behind her: a cold, dire hatred and revulsion in her long-lashed eyes, her curving eyebrows fraught with frigid disdain.

"Who are you?" she demanded of him, without policy or preamble.

And the menacing figure in black laughed softly: throatily, arrogantly, the emotion behind the velvety sound one of pleasure and exultation, because _he_ certainly knew who he was, and what was meant for her – and _she_ didn't.  Elowyn's scalp prickled with icy-hot indignation.

He sat up, looming before her in all his venomous evil grace: silent and calm as a panther, deadly as a coiling cobra.  The faery princess looked at him, her back ramrod straight and her face etched with defiance and cold anger.  

With a smooth, elegant gesture of his gloved hands, he made a placating motion, although all the while his condescending laugh continued to burn into her ears, pounding heatedly into her mind until she thought she would snap, and go mad.

"Only someone you should very much fear…like the Big Bad Wolf of your nursery fables and all your little faery tales, if you will…" The head beneath the black hood cocked to one side, mocking and arrogant. "I wouldn't move much farther off this bed, though, if I were you – you might fall and bump your head on the floor."

But moving further off was all that _she_ wanted to do at the moment!

Incensed, her temper boiling over, she stood up and pulled her arm back, yanking on the chain.  Her dark companion made an infuriated noise as he was lurched forward, taken off guard by her surprising show of strength.

And then things went from bad to worse.

Elowyn: so utterly, gleefully delighted by her success that she even found the wits to snap the chain around, looping it about her wrist, which gave her aggressor an extra, even _more_ vicious yank across the bed, stepped back, eyes blazing.  But this was not the best thing that she could have done – for, immediately, the furious black-cloaked specter fought himself to his knees, swung his legs down off of the bed, and rose to his full almost seven feet of height.  

Moving with incredible speed, as the bat-like shadow that had overtaken Robbie and Sala in the forest that night had done as well, he was suddenly snatching her arms above the elbows in a violent, cruel grasp, with hands that locked around her like iron vices.  Elowyn twisted like an eel in his arms, however – but this helped not at all.  The hands that had closed around her arms were like iron, like steel: she could never escape them.  

And with a sound that was suspiciously like a snarl, the black-cloaked form whirled her bodily around, pinning her against him, then literally threw her backwards.  Elowyn stopped herself just before she hit the wall and turned to face her antagonist, never taking her eyes from him.

But, then, without a moment's pause, the specter now took his own turn and jerked on the chain, snapping it – and Elowyn's arm – straight with a force that sent a numbing shockwave up her arm, and made her lurch forward, directly into his arms.  She fought back, throwing her head back in time to see the black shadow swooping down on her: both of its hands moving to press themselves to either side of her head…forcing her to look only one place – into the flat, emotionless expanse of a Sytherrian burial mask.  

She couldn't take her eyes away.

A thin stream of hot, belabored breath whistled through the slit in the mouth of the mask, as the false iron eyes stared blankly, menacingly, down at her.  

"You are a fighter, then, little one," came the deep voice: resonant from behind that mask.  Still, the false eyes glared at her, soulless and unfeeling. "But _I_ can fight as well – and in this case, I think that I would end up winning…don't you?"

"You'd only win because you're a twisted, sick spawn of a goblin who can't give his name, or even summon up the nerve to show his own face!" Elowyn spat. "Or are you really _that_ ugly?"

_Whoosh._

The mask was now hovering so close to her face that her eyelashes brushed against the false eyes when she blinked.  She swallowed and stared without flinching into those eyes.  He was silent for a long, long time, leaning over her…

Finally—

"Sometimes the things that do not allow their faces to be seen are those that are fairest to look upon, little princess…and sometimes, they are the most _awful_."

Then, gloved fingers brushed her cheek, with the whispering touch of a butterfly's wing.  _So gentle, so deft_…how could something this careful also be so violent, and so cruel?

Pensively now, as if in thought – "But you will never know, now will you?  You will never know; you can never know, unless I_ allow _you…"

"And I'll still refuse," she spat back at him.

For a moment, she almost imagined that she had seen dry, twisted lips curve behind that iron burial mask: an expression of cruel, nasty, pure evil amusement.  The gloved fingertips now moved to run themselves lightly through her hair, burying themselves in its masses for a moment – reminding her subtly of the power that he held over her: a prisoner in a desolate land…   

Elowyn closed her eyes.

"Oh…perhaps you might, little princess," he murmured, his voice a velvety and soothing purr: under which was still, however, the dangerous undertone of venomous evil. "Perhaps you might.  But…_you might not have that chance_…"

And – suddenly – his hands clamped down onto her head again, palms and fingers digging through her hair and pressing hard against her scalp, holding her powerless to move or fight back; there was a sound like something dissolving, with a hiss – and then a dry, rough mouth fell on hers.

_The kiss of evil._

Elowyn's scream of incredible fury at this most horrible of insults was muffled by the lips of he who kissed her, however, and try as she might, no efforts of her own would free her.  

His hood had fallen forward so that it draped over not only his head, but hers as well, and she felt as if she had been instantaneously blinded, trapped in that horrible blackness.  The lips of this creature of pure evil claimed hers, tearing into her senses, until she felt as if her head would burst.  No kiss that she had ever before experienced had been this savage, this cruel and, more than anything else, this _violent_!  It was almost more as if he was torturing her into submission with a cat-o'-nine-tails, rather than embracing her, and the touch of his lips was revolting: hot and deft as a snake's flicking tongue, taunting and brutal, pitiless and vindictive as any lord of the Dark Realm—

Cold air suddenly swept in as he abruptly released her, flooding into her senses and bringing her back to life, as if she had been kept frozen in an abandoned temple for thousands of years.  

She let her eyelids shoot open again, and found herself looking once more into the burial mask, and she could just _imagine_ the wicked, malevolent smile that might have been on his face, had he shown it to her at that moment.  Instead, all she saw was the mask.

Two fingertips ran themselves gently along her cheek, down along her jaw line.  She despised their touch, and sensed that he could see right through her – now, if never before.  A sound that was suspiciously like a laugh, instead of a growl this time, rumbled from that broad, muscular chest, causing the black figure before her to shake slightly with cruel mirth.

"I wouldn't suggest your trying to make it through the doorway again, little princess," he told her, fingers still caressing her cheek, then below her swollen bottom lip.  

Elowyn only just kept from flinching away – for all she knew, he'd stoop to kissing her again if she reacted _that_ way.  Instead, she fixed him with her fulminating glare of blue-flecked jade.  He laughed deep in his throat again then, pleased by her defiance. 

"I can already see that this will prove to be a _most_ amusing time of things, now that we have you here – and what an honour, as well!  To have the legendary princess of prophecy in such a desolate realm…" 

He trailed off, and then his hand clamped down on one side of her head again.  Leaning low over her, he breathed, in a low and utterly menacing voice that only she could hear, "You are here at the behest of my Queen, little one – I will _only_ keep you alive because she has commanded me to, and I live to do her bidding."

"Then your Queen, whomever _she_ happens to be, lives to simply go around and abduct random people, and then – then do what with them?  Kill them?  Torture them?  Or simply dissolve their mortal bodies until only the barest husk is left and leave them to wander for eternity as the living dead in the lovely bloody desert that you've got here?  I can come up with more!" Elowyn hissed back.

A condescending chuckle.

"Such a sense of humor – what an _endearing_ little quirk.  I might have been tempted to keep you around, little one…only I don't think that we would get along very well, for where _you_ have the wickedly sharp tongue of a viper, my Sea-Jade, _I_ have the patience of a Titan.  Though it doesn't matter…she has plans for you, little one.  Do you know just how important you really are?" Fingers ran through her hair again.  Elowyn stiffened her neck.

"Don't you have anywhere else to be right now – haunting a graveyard or hanging from your claws in a tower somewhere, perhaps?"

"Actually, it's more like my crypt, but I really don't think that _you_ need to know things like that.  You _are_ my prisoner, and I wouldn't forget it, were I you," was the smug reply.  

Then he stood back, looming over her still: an ominous specter robed in billowing black shadows.  She sensed his thoughtful regard upon her, as he remained where he was, looking down.  Then, as an afterthought, "I had hoped…this would have been a little less easy.  Now I won't have long to _toy_ with you," And she only just kept herself from shuddering in utterly paralyzing dread at the way he said that word, "Because, after all, my Lady will want to have a personal audience with you as soon as she can take herself away from the other more pressing matters of her court.  I hope that you will not much mind the delay."

What spiteful, malicious venom of irony was in those words!

Elowyn raised one eyebrow, cool and nonchalant.

"Will _you_ be my companion in the duration of the time between then and now?"

A ripple of silent anger went through the air.

"You will _not_ attempt to leave this place again, do you understand?"

She made no reply.  Instead, she stepped away from the wall, and, half-turning her back on him, began to re-braid her hair again – completely and purposefully ignoring him.  The figure in black swooped down on her, imprisoning her in his arms again, his hands grasping her arms just above the elbow once more and nearly lifting her clean off of her feet.  The burial mask glared furiously into her face.  

"I said—" Forcefully; then, the soft, but deadly purr again, "_Do you understand_?"

"Yes."

Elowyn gave in.  He would never leave her until he'd had his promise from her.

And she was right: as soon as she had said the words, the figure in black – her tormentor and captor – released her, and made a gesture, his hands at his sides.  Instantly, the shackles on his wrist, and those on hers, dissolved, with a faint hissing noise.  Rubbing her wrist where the metal thing had been, Elowyn wondered if that was his way with all metal things – magically dissolve them with his dark powers.  That was the only way she could have explained the sudden disappearance of his burial mask, since his hands had never left her head just before he had kissed her…and her mind shied away from that thought like the memory of a bad dream.

She closed her eyes.

"Do not think for a moment that they are really gone," he told her, in a flat, hollow tone that was totally devoid of any emotion.  He now stood several feet away from her, his huge, black form outlined by the light of the sky beyond the window. 

"If at any time you make the slightest move to escape from here – there is magic in this place, magic that will serve to tell me that you are trying to leave…and I _will_ come to find you.  Wherever you are, however you attempt to hide yourself, I will find you – and then, no mere amount of word-fencing will save you from _me_."

And then he stepped to the balcony.  

Elowyn heard a sound like material ripping, violently torn apart, and there was a blast of fiery-hot wind, which sent her gown and her hair to whipping about her uncontrollably, almost knocking her to the ground as she stood there, in the center of the cold, black marble floor.  

Then she heard a truly frightening noise – the ragged, ground-shaking roar of a dragon.

Running to the balcony, she looked out, expecting to see her captor's black form already tiny in the distance, borne on the back of a red-and-gold dragon of the desert…

But, instead, all she saw was a huge black dragon, which arched its neck and spread its enormous wings out fully, and shrieked again—

Telling her just what kind of fate met whatever unfortunate souls who tried to make it out of the labyrinth maze alive.  She knew, of course, that they just _didn't_.  Wordless and without a hope in the world, she sank down to the floor.

And was silent.            

*                       *                       *

A/N: Yes, I'm still being evil and keeping you all from knowing what he really looks like…but for right now, envision my beloved-but-bratty Dark Lord as resembling Imhotep from the train scenes in "The Mummy Returns". And now, I will leave you until I make my next update…please review for me…


	11. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine – 

Inner Sanctum of a Dark Lord

The residents of Sytherria's huge, sprawling capital city – _Dranthiris-Ankhar_, otherwise known in the common tongues of Evyrworld as the Lair of Shadows – were warned of their lord's return by the ragged, echoing shriek of the black dragon that suddenly swooped down out of the nearly colourless sky, wings spread and talons outstretched, coming to land with terrifying speed and ease in a courtyard somewhere in the midst of the imposing, darkly magnificent palace.

Clearly, he had given some sort of prior warning to his closest attendants and officials, for, the instant that the dragon touched down to the ground, a black- and red-robed figure came down the steps that led into the courtyard.  

This one approached the great beast with profound reverence.

"My lord," said the figure: a tall, muscular, and stern man with a rugged but comely face, who was swarthy and tan of complexion, with a dark, trim moustache and goatee, and curls of dark unruly hair that he wore long to his shoulders, and piercing, intelligent eyes that resembled black diamonds in their impassiveness.  A pair of carefully etched, swirling tattoos crowned his cheekbones, just below his eyes, and upon his breast he wore a silvery chain and huge pendant, with a blood-red stone at its center.  His sword: a long, broad weapon with a blade that curved imposingly, hung at rest at his side, nearly hidden by his ample black robes.  He stood before the dragon and waited.

The hulking beast that towered above him spent a moment carefully folding its wings; then, in its voice that was like hundreds of boulders sliding in an avalanche down a mountainside, it replied to the sally, "I return to find the Lair of Shadows oddly at _unawares_—" 

Suddenly, a beam of light erupted from the dragon's broad, muscle-ripped chest, and a great whirlwind was caught up around the both of them: huge black wings folding around the dragon's bulk.  Within a moment, the sand had settled again, and the air became clear.  

Then, a slender form that was even taller and infinitely more sinister than the first man materialized from the haze, assuming a lethally elegant, sinuously relaxed pose: one long black-gloved hand extending from within the depths of the robes that it wore to gesture, palm up, towards the other man.  Its voice, a thousand times more elegant and refined than that of the dragon, essayed forth from the hood it wore over its head. 

"Now might I ask for an explanation of this, Rákkhed?"

Rákkhed Dahk-Marr, the Dark Lord's personal assassin – the best in all Sytherria – and chief of his elite guard force, the dreaded Antari, smiled in his detached, grim way, and bowed to his master, the fingertips of his left hand moving to briefly touch themselves to his forehead, in a show of the most profound and ancient respect.  When he straightened, he looked into the blank, soulless eyes of the Sytherrian burial mask that his lord had been forced to don upon his return to his body, giving neither a pause or flinching reaction as he gazed upon it.

"The people fear their lord, my liege," he replied.

What could only have been described as the most heart chilling, sinister, and deep-throated of laughs then rippled out of the black figure, who then turned and began to walk towards the wide black onyx steps that led up into the interior of the palace, the head of the Antari following reverently in his wake.  

The two passed through the gigantic, square doorway that crowned the portico heading the steps, moving into the cool, tomb-like darkness beyond: the shadows of which seemed to slither around them.  At the approach of the Dark Lord, the torches in their sconces high up on the enormous, thick pillars of alabaster that lined the walls of the pathway began to light, one by one, setting the air on fire with their flames and the perfume of incense.  Down the pattern-inscribed floor they went, the inky figures of other inhabitants of the palace turning to pay homage to their Lord, who passed them by without a glance.

_Dranthiris-Ankhar_ had been his chief citadel, and Sytherria his undisputed dominion, since the beginning of his supremacy as a lord of the Dark Realm.  The former residents of that land had resisted the advances of the figure who had named himself '_Ríth-Anstarinaor_' when he and his army of grim, black-robed warriors had first come into their land, across the vast, arid deserts, through the waterless wastes and scorching sands.  

However, they had very quickly learned that allowing themselves to be subdued and then rendering the greatest respect to that invading army was the best thing to do, for _Ríth-Anstarinaor_ was simply too crafty, too powerful, too merciless and brutal a warlord to let a petty seven hundred thousand-man defense force deter him from achieving what he wanted…

And _keeping_ what he had gotten.

Since then, over the hundreds of thousands of years that had passed – years in which were included that initial invasion, _Ríth-Anstarinaor_'s dominance and rule over Sytherria, and then his terrible defeat at the hands of those who had united against him during the Battle for Avalennon of the White Realm – the mortal residents of the desert land had learnt well to make themselves as invisible as possible, and do exactly as their Lord wished, bending to his slightest whim.

Convenient, that he would no longer have to deal with the tedium of putting down a ragtag, ill-organized revolt or two every hundred years or so.

Rákkhed trailing him with the cultivated silence and respect of a well-trained first-captain, he passed through the outer courts of his Lair of Shadows, going further on into it until he reached a gigantic, sprawling wing of uninhibited black.  

This shadow-ridden place was the Dark Lord's own most personal domain, and few entered it, and then only at his exclusive whim – which happened rarely enough.  Even at that, more people walked in through its doors than left through them.  Wordless, he gestured that the doors be shut behind them, and strode across the gleaming floor, upon which had been laid out the pattern of a black and white star: huge, glowing rubies set in each of its many points.  

In the very center of the star was a slightly raised dais and pedestal, of pure white granite.  Through a skylight in the domed ceiling, a ray of light – sharp and clear amid the shadows – pierced down to meet its top.  It was to this that the Dark Lord walked, turning his back on Rákkhed for a moment before speaking again. 

"Has there been any word from the Ebony City?" was the calm and even inquiry.

Rákkhed shook his head negatively, a flicker of dissatisfaction going through his black eyes as he did so.  

"None, my lord – only that she wishes you to contact her as soon as is possible."

There was a ripple of something that went through the air at that moment: disappointment, perhaps, on the Dark Lord's part, and just a hint of defiance and arrogance as well.  

Then, from he who ruled the land in a powerful grip of steel: "So – she dares demand that I avail myself for her to dispense with as she pleases, and before she deigns to bestir herself from that great fortress of hers in her well-guarded city, in order to hold up her end of our bargain?"  

His words were spoken with unveiled disgust, but it was hardly shocking or disconcerting for Rákkhed to hear his master speak of the Queen, his lady, in such a manner.  His lord had been pet-servant and weapon for the powerful sorceress – or whatever she was, in reality; for no one truly knew but her, and, perhaps, the Dark Lord – for hundreds of thousands of years, almost too long for many to remember.  

Respect was something that the Dark Lord rendered to the Queen, but his was such a spirit of arrogance and self-assurance, and unrestrained willfulness, that at times, it surfaced in his dealings with his lady, who was either amused or slightly disapproving of his insolence.  In those times, Rákkhed had noted, it seemed as if the Dark Lord was no more than a rebellious adolescent, and the Queen his indulgent parent.

But only the Dark Lord himself knew just how close this came to the truth.

The moment of displeasure was less substantial than a wisp of smoke, and it quickly dissolved.  The figure in black at the pedestal looked as if his gaze had gone to root itself fixatedly on something far out in the horizon, beyond the windows of the room, the palace, and _Dranthiris-Ankhar_ itself.  Rákkhed stood and waited.

Finally, "I will contact her when I may."

The figure then gestured for the assassin to come forward and take the heavy black cloak that he had just slung off from his shoulders, revealing the full-cut, long black robes he wore beneath: detailed with embroidery of jet, and belted with black leather that matched his knee-length boots.  Now, the Sytherrian burial mask was at last allowed to be seen fully, in all its stark coldness.  As he had let the faery princess see, it was iron, and black-silver in colour, with blank, emotionless features and only a thin slit in the mouth to allow him breath.  The rest of the mask completely covered his face, and his head as a whole—

Which was a fortunate thing _indeed_, as Elowyn might have seen now, when he at last removed it.

After his horrible defeat on the battlefields outside of the faery fortress of Avalennon, the Dark Lord had only been able to summon up just enough power to ghost himself away, back to the camp of the fleeing armies that the Dark Realm had once called its own.  Of course, his ever-faithful guardsmen, the Antari, had at once rallied around him, ready to defend their mortally wounded Lord – although he would not admit how greatly he had been hurt by the blast of faery-powers that had hit him, head-on, in the chest, that day – to the death.  

Then, finally, the Ebony Queen had at last made her appearance.  

With the aid of her powers, she brought them all to the Black City, her chief citadel, and brought forward this ultimatum to her fallen servant: "You have but one choice now, Jaedin _Ríth-Anstarinaor_," she told him, without a flicker of emotion on her cold, beautiful face. "Either embrace the chill form of Death, and leave this world forever, before you have yet begun to live, or seek instead the living death that I will give you." 

And when he had asked, through the agonizing pain that he was suffering, what this '_living death_' would be, she told him. 

"You must remove your life-force, your living soul, from your body, sundering what link was once there, and betake yourself into the form of a wraith: powerful as you formerly were, but invisible to any eye, and unable to leave your own city.  Your body will lie in wait, until there is enough power regenerated for you to return into it."

He had almost no choice: there were precious few moments of life and strength remaining for him, and so great was his need for revenge against the White Realm, even through the mind-breaking pain that was then assailing him, that he was blinded to all else.  It was unhappily that he made his choice, however, for what lord of great strength would surrender himself willingly into several hundred thousand years of going about in the world as a wraith, and skulking in the shadows, when he might have continued on in the battle of darkness against the light, and eventually dominated the world?  

Even so, he endured the spell-casting that would sunder the link between his outward body and the spirit that lay within it, and the Dark Lord of Sytherria became no more: instead, it was a wraith that haunted the vast black halls of the great palace, _Dranthiris-Ankhar_.  

He had waited for so long…and now this.

The reason why he wore the burial mask was because – to all intents and purposes – he was exactly the kind of creature that such things were reserved for: a corpse.  The customs of the Dark Realm differed from those of the White Realm in the arena of burial and body preservation, as it did in almost everything else, and whereas the faeries and others like them preferred to send their dead to the heavens as ashes scattered to the wind, the inhabitants of the Dark Realm most often opted for a more interesting and difficult procedure: mummification.  

He had been too angry over his defeat still to know anything about what went on during his body's embalming, and had spent the time fuming in his fortress, while his Queen oversaw the event – and after hundreds of thousands of years, when he was at last restored to his ancient form, it had been quite different than he remembered it.  The powers that had gone into once more forming the link between body and soul had only been enough to do just that – not to give him the appearance he once had.  That was up to him.  

It was a long, slow process: dragging the power that would allow him to completely restore his body to what it had been out of wherever it had been resting, and then absorbing it into himself.  But it was, again, his only choice.

He was getting quite tired of having _only one choice_.

The burial mask removed, he strode across the room to stand in front of the large, full-length mirror of reflective black adamant.  For reasons that he and a precious few others knew, everyday mirrors would not show his image, and so he had created this one specifically for his own use, utilizing his dark powers.  Even so, its surface was cracked.

As he looked into the black depths, he saw the exact same visage that looked out at him every time that he gazed into the mirror: a discoloured, rough, and rather scaly face and neck, looking as if it had just come out of the grave.  Which wasn't far from the truth, he knew – still, having the form of a mummy was better than being undead, he had long ago decided.  He then smirked: a painful, twisted sneer at both his ruined face and form, and at the thought of what the little faery bratling that he held captive in his tower would have done, had he shown her his face.  As it was, he was fully aware that his looks were mind-breaking enough, and quite hideous.

He turned around.  

His captain of the guard was still standing there, awaiting his master's next command.  Rákkhed had long accustomed himself to the Dark Lord's wraith form, and then to his burial mask, but the sight of his living dead face still unnerved, so graphic was it in its hideousness.  It was with admirable calm, however, that he then spoke.

"I trust that my lord found everything well at the Tower of Adamant?" he inquired, naming the place where Elowyn was being held.

The Dark Lord scoffed: the endless depths of his amber eyes rolling, as a willful young adolescent boy's might. 

"Just as well as one might expect things to go in this particular nurse-maiding endeavor," he replied, scornfully; then, recalling something of the moment in which he had used his most dire force to subdue the defiant young faery princess, he put the fingertips of one hand up to his mouth, gently probing the area with his tongue.  

He frowned, scowling slightly.

"She bit me," he muttered.

Rákkhed's dark, curving eyebrows shot up a bit upon hearing this, but otherwise, he made no reaction.  The things that his master said and did, but neglected to give an explanation for, were his affair alone, and no one – especially the Antari, whose mission was to live and die for _Ríth-Anstarinaor_ of Sytherria – would dare cross him.

Sensing slight disapproval in his servant's air, the tall, black figure of the Dark Lord of old whirled about, rounding on him, and this time, there was a flicker of dangerous fire in those deep amber eyes, which warned the one who looked upon him to tread carefully – the least dreadful death that those who displeased the Dark Lord could fear was being blasted into any number of pieces by a surge of power from his fingertips.

"Leave me now," he ordered, coldly, brooking no outlet for further conversation; but then, almost as an afterthought, "Unless you have anything else to inform me of, Captain Dahk-Marr."

Rákkhed did in fact have something else to inform him of, although he regretted it.  Stepping forward with a reluctant air about him, he answered, "There _is_ one other thing, my lord."

The figure in black had already turned away from him, returning from the mirror back across the room to a set of huge black doors which showed, upon being opened, a truly crypt-like bedchamber, lit with thick crimson candles that dripped their wax onto the gleaming floor, where it pooled like blood.  At length, then, "And what of it?"

"On this very morn, prior to your return, there was a winged stallion of the East flown to the gates of our city, my lord – one of the famed Pegasus of the Elves." A pause. "It is an enraged and wild creature, untamable by any hand."

His master gathered together the facts that he did not include, processing them coolly and quickly through his dark mind, as if he were calculating battle strategies or famine losses.

"Come to fetch his young mistress, no doubt," was the reply. "Well then – what people hold the creature in delay?"

Rákkhed, if he was surprised by his master's reaction, did not show it.  

"A detachment of my men, my liege."

Evidently satisfied, "Indeed.  Give the poor brute a place in the wing with my mounts, and let him be taken care of.  I shall, perhaps, pay a visit to this noble animal of the sea-loving Elves – apparently, our lady Queen has not yet seen the need to hasten herself to this place in order to advance this diabolical plot of ours any further, and so I see that I must needs find a way to make some entertainment for myself, for _us_, whilst we await her.  You have my leave to go."

The captain of the Antari bowed and left the room, the huge black doors sliding shut behind him with the grating of stone upon stone, leaving Jaedin, the Dark Lord of Sytherria, in the darkness that so well mirrored the depths of his own heart.

_But it was known by every living creature who inhabited the palace of Dranthiris-Ankhar that the darkness did not mean that all was quiet and still – no indeed, the darkness was anything but the herald of silence and sleep…and in the crypt where the Dark Lord made his deepest, most personal lair, the shadows that night saw the beginnings of yet another act that would chill even the bravest of hearts… _

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Scary thought – we've now journeyed inside of what is quite possibly the darkest lair in all of Evyrworld: the castle of the Dark Lord himself.  Who knows what lies within the deepest shadows here?  We shall soon find out!  And forgive the awful cliff-hangers; I don't write them that way to be mean *winks*, it's just how the story goes…  R&r!


	12. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten – 

Violation of the Mind

_The dust is swirling,_

_A mist is fallen,_

_The world is broken,_

_Sad and cold –_

_There is anger and tears,_

_The people are lonely…_

_East wind, oh my East wind,_

_Where have you gone?_

_I hear their crying,_

_Can't you feel our pain?_

_East wind, where have you gone – _

_Will you come back…_

_I am a sojourner – _

_Life is my name,_

_Chasing dreams is all I can do._

_For what is a world without dreams?_

_Can you tell me?_

_I wish you would…_

_East wind, oh my East wind,_

_You've gone, but you're not far – _

_I'll find you somehow._

_For chasing dreams is all I can do,_

_And you're not gone,_

_And I won't let you go…_

_For you're not gone,_

_And I'll not let you go._

High and sweet was the voice that sang these words, but in the ears of the still, comely form that lay in a deep sleep upon the sepulcher of black marble, it was like the mind-breaking shattering of glass, and the howling of many winds.  It wound itself through the hot, thick air of his desert realm and insinuated itself into his head, even into his very mind: mocking and taunting him like the buzzing of a horrid little fly.  _A song to rend his very consciousness…_

With a terrible cry, Jaedin, the Dark Lord, opened his eyes and flew up in bed.  His eyes of violet-gray instantly tore across the room to the window that looked out onto the landscape of his realm, Sytherria, to the tower of black adamant stone that stood far off in the distance.  From thence, his sensitive ears could tell, came the song that so mocked and tormented him.  From thence, came his torture.

_No more!_

His action following this mental shriek, he threw the silky gray-black sheet that had covered his form aside and stood.  At a thought from him, the doors of the chamber swung wide open and he strode out into the room beyond, where a score of the Antari awaited his slightest bidding.  Violet-gray eyes nearly alight with furious lightning, Jaedin snapped out his orders to them.

"All of you – to the Tower – _now_!"

Even as they moved to do his bidding, he returned back into his chambers and went to the balcony that led out of his room – his crypt – into the night air.  Then, without a second's pause, the silent sleep of _Dranthiris-Ankhar_'s residents was split by the earth-sundering shriek of the black dragon that suddenly rose into the air from the palace and hurtled towards the spike-lined tower that stood far off in the distance, outlined by the indigo velvet sky, wings swooping on the air.

*                       *                       *

The Antari whom he had ordered to meet him at the tower were already there when he arrived.  There were many things that Jaedin had learnt about his elite guard force in the millenniums that they had served him – they had always been in his life, for as long as he could remember, and _that_ was past reckoning in some minds – but they were still a great mystery to him, by and large.  One of the things that he could not understand was how they, who were neither sorcerers, wizards, or otherwise, could move with such incredible speed: speed that rivaled even that of a dragon, or magic itself.  But that mattered little now.

With a cold, fey anger that would terrify even the most powerful being of either the Dark Realm or the White sparking in his eyes and turning his face to stone, he passed through the ranks of the Antari, who had formed flanking lines on either side of him, moving towards the tower.  Rákkhed, as his captain of the guard, followed in his wake, silent and grim; however, at the last moment before his lord reached the doorway that led into the tower, he spoke.

"My lord – she's but a _child_."

Instantly, the ice of those terrible gray eyes fixed itself on him: poisoning him with the venom of their pure hatred and loathing.

"Must I now begin to doubt your allegiance to me in this hour, Captain?"

Rákkhed bowed low, paying homage before his lord.

"Never will the Antari desert their master," he replied, repeating the words of the ancient oath.  As one the rest of the black- and scarlet-cloaked men said with him, "In the East nor in the West, in the South nor in the North; through any time, any place, anything will we serve him, and him alone.  This we pledge, and hold as sole vow in our lives, surmountable by none other.  May our swords turn against us and our souls be devoured by the black underworld if we break it."

Then Rákkhed stood and his black eyes met those of his master.

"We are for you, or for _no one_, my lord."

Jaedin was not so forgiving as any other lord of evil, however, and he did not release his closest companion and most trusted – up until that moment – warrior from the pure venom of his gaze.  Still staring into the impassive face of the Antari captain, he said, "Await me here."

Then, under the doorway he stepped, and into the shadows of the winding stairway he disappeared, leaving them to do as he commanded.

*                       *                       *

_This girl.  This girl this girl this girl._

If Jaedin had had any hair, he would have pulled it all out at that very moment as he stood, looking down upon the sleeping form of the faery princess whom he had captured.  

What had he done to his Lady to deserve the punishment of this?  How had he possibly failed her, or displeased her, that she would curse him with such a task?  

The Dark Lord of Sytherria had never willingly had any sort of dealings with faeries, or any other residents of the White Realm, since the very beginning of his lordship.  When he had been commanded, by the heads of the Dark Realm, to attack and subdue with his forces the peoples and places named to be their opponents, he had done so, and with a good will.  

But tracking and then taking captive an actual faery, and not only a faery, but a _seventeen-year-old princess of faeries_, at that—!  

It was simply too much.  He was fairly sure that he had done nothing to merit such a loathsome task.

Once more, he turned his fulminating, violet-gray gaze down on the sleeping girl.  

Upon entering the tower, he had attempted to insinuate his own mind into hers, in order to stop her from calling out to her friends and allies from within her dreams – and had immediately been slammed back away from her, as if he had run into a wall of solid stone!  Obviously, she was even more powerful than he had thought.  Not only did she have the weight of an ancient prophesy that had named her as the doom of all evil in the world on her head, but she had also managed to create a barrier of the mind that had kept him, the lord of evil, from entering her subconscious.

_Oh yes,_ he thought, his gaze traveling the length of her still form as she lay there, sleeping, _You are very powerful indeed, princess – even more so than I had anticipated…but will that save you from me?_

Days had passed since he had last seen her directly – after that first rather interesting introduction that they had had when she had awakened to find him there with her.  He still chuckled to himself at the thought of her two escape attempts, both botched and failed miserably!  But now he felt anything _but_ amused.  

He wondered what else she had been doing to pass her time during those past few days.  Most princesses, he knew, would spend the hours despairing, sobbing and crying and begging for mercy to the air in general.  This princess, it was obvious, who threw his own words back at him and then dared to call him names to his face, and rude names too!, she was very different.  He remembered well the attire she'd been wearing when he had taken her from her friends too – certainly not the typical princess garb.

Yes, _very_ different indeed.

She couldn't have tried to escape again.  If she had been intelligent to any degree, which he wagered she was, she would have listened to him when he had told her not to attempt another escape.  And that sort of intelligence both intrigued him, and put him on his guard – he couldn't trust her to behaving in a silly, mindless manner.

That song though – that song that had awakened him rudely during the middle of the night, driving him from the everlasting black void of sleep…it had been a subconscious call to her comrades.  Already, her Pegasus had found his way to her, across uncharted miles of stretching and treacherous lands; what would be next?  Her two friends from the forest that night, or her brothers and sisters?  Her exalted mother and father, with all of their doomed forces behind them?

_No, princess – that would not do._

His orders had been simple: find the princess, bring her to his castle, and keep her there until the Queen herself could come to deal with her.  Then, with the girl held as bargaining power and sole determining factor, the Dark Realm could approach the White Realm with any ultimatum that it might conceive.  Jaedin could imagine what that might look like…

But this princess – she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

The princess stirred in her sleep, just as he thought this, and suddenly Jaedin found his gaze riveted to her again.  _You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?_ he thought at her.  _You will do everything within your power, everything possible, to escape me, and then when _that_ fails, you will make both me and everyone in my realm as miserable as possible until you get what you want._

_But I _know_ what _I_ want._

Gently and ever so softly, ever so noiselessly, he lowered himself until he was sitting on the edge of the bed beside her.  Wide, entrancing eyes of gray tinged with pale violet, delicate as a fresh-bloomed iris of the hill-country, eyes rimmed with thick lashes of darkest brown, but eyes that were also outlined in menacing black kohl of a Dark Lord, gazed down upon the sleeping princess's face.  

She was so young, so fresh, so absolutely and irresistibly innocent – so _pure_.

And that was what made him feel so oddly around her, he then realized, as suddenly as if a lightning bolt had just struck down through the roof and hit him.  That was why his inner self responded to the sight of her with such strange, unfamiliar yearnings…longings…_desires_.  She was everything that he was not: his exact opposite.  He had the darkness of a sealed tomb, stained throughout his entire being until not one shard of light was left to taint the ether; she was light, pure and radiant, untouched and dazzling, like a sun taken on the form of a faery.  She was only a very young seventeen-years-old; he was the denizen of the centuries, millenniums, hundreds of thousands of years that had passed before she had ever been born.

And yet, they were tied by a prophecy…

She was beautiful.  He had recognized the inherent loveliness of her face and form when he had first seen her, but now in this moment of revelation, he saw it even more clearly.  Perhaps this was because she was lying there, totally unaware of him in her sleep, and he could at last see her at rest.  Whenever he had looked at her before, she had been either pacing back and forth like a young caged tigress, or standing still at her balcony, staring off into space, or sitting on the floor, stern and unbending as a young willow tree sapling.  

Now, in her sleep, she was unrestrained and softened: melted like ice, and he could see through the cold, pale spring that was in her features…

Her face was heart-shaped, youthful and clever, and he could tell that she was most likely mischievous as well; her forehead was high and well-rounded, intellectual, with a short, pert nose that tilted up just ever so slightly at its tip, full cheeks that blushed at their apples, and a classic faery chin.  Her eyes were, as he had noted at that first meeting, large, and wide, and infinitely sea-green: not quite jade, but of the exact hue of the ocean itself at midday.  She had the most incredible lashes, and her eyebrows spoke volumes of character, almost irritating in their little quirk.  And her mouth: that full, blooming, soft-as-spun-silk mouth, with its rosebud lips and flawless white teeth behind them, and that little dimple that etched into the corner of her mouth when she smirked, even at _him_—

Jaedin leaned over her, propping himself up on one elbow as he tilted his head to look at a better angle into her face, his shadow falling over her, one black-gloved hand moving to stroke gently into her pale blonde curls.  He had never actually touched her hair with his bare hands, but he could imagine what it felt like.  

What he felt for her within he wasn't certain of; however, many others of the thinking races would define it as the inherent desire for the affection and devotion of another, at least.  What he _did_ know, however, was that he felt himself inexplicably drawn to this princess, and that no woman or any other female had ever drawn him to her in such a way.  He wanted to be with her, forever, and this she would rail against with all her might, knowing him as evil and cruel.  Both of these he was, but he wanted her for himself – wanted her with a deadly desire that could not be denied: he, the Dark Lord, and she, the captive princess.

_Milady would _never_ allow this, _he thought, with a smirk, as his fingers continued to caress themselves into the pale curls of the maiden before him.  

The Queen had had him convinced that the faery princess whom he was to capture was the scum of the earth, deserving only to be eliminated, or simply held prisoner in such a way that she was kept only barely alive.  

But now that he had seen this princess, and had her before him…

Well, many of the ladies in his court would be jealous, if they had been there to see the way he was looking at the princess of faeries right at that moment.  

_Very_ jealous.

Jaedin moved closer to her, lowering his face until it was so close to hers that he could feel the even, subtle warmth that was radiating from her peaches-and-cream skin, so close that his eyelashes brushed against her cheek.  How could she have captivated him so, doing what no woman had ever done before?  How was it that she had brought him to this?

Had she awakened in that moment, Elowyn would have seen a much different specter before her than she had last seen: neither the masked figure in black nor the living corpse was with her now, but a real, live, incredibly beautiful person, whose only evidence of his ever having been less than fully living was the faint, vein-like marks that lined his face, fading off into the skin of his smooth, shaved scalp – whose eyes gazed at her with a pure, liquid gray fire that would have very much frightened her had she looked into them…

Her magic would have to be dealt with.  

If he couldn't directly break into her mind…well, then, he could take his time.  After all, he had plenty of it, and then some to spare.

Running one gloved fingertip along the side of her face, then cupping his palm underneath her chin, so that his thumb could caress the fullness of her lower lip, still gazing intently into her face, the red- and gold-garbed specter remarked lightly, in a tone that was as silky and soft a whisper as anyone could imagine…

"No more games, Princess…I'm not ready to let you go yet." 

Then, there was a pause as he leaned closer to her, so that the bridge of his nose nearly touched hers, and he whispered to her sleeping form, "_And I am not entirely certain that I ever will be_…"__

*                       *                       *

In her dream, Elowyn saw herself in a thousand different scenes, all of her life previous to her kidnapping: memories from her happy life in Avalennon, with her beloved friends and family.  She hadn't realized just how carefree it had all been for her until it was too late…

Then, it became as if her outer form had melted away, until she became a half-transparent ghost of herself, who could see everything around her, and yet be unseen by the eyes of those who walked by her, and walk through walls herself.  She found herself straying through the darkened halls of Avalennon: remembering how it never seemed to be dark there, even when night had fallen…  There was a sweet music of bubbling fountains that splashed their cold, clear water into the silver, white sandstone, jade, and other kinds of basins, and of the night wind, and nightingales as they flew up into the branches of the magic-ridden trees.  

Silent and unseen, she walked through her families' bedrooms.  Everyone seemed to be there, from her oldest brother, Taiven, to Elladine, who was the youngest of the family but for Elowyn herself.  Her cousins, others of her extended family, and even friends of old were there as well: Sala, Robbie, Arilyn, Orlando and Arielle, Griffith, and others, all sleeping…but all with the marks of worry and grief etched into their faces.  

_Why…_  

Last of all, she came to her parents' room.  There, she glided through the wall and came to stand, ghostly, beside their bed.  

Orandor and Vahlada slept with arms around one another, and neither looked as if they had slept in some time.  There were traces of tears on her mother's gentle, lovely face, and, wanting to take away those tears, to ease the pain, Elowyn reached out a hand to brush them away – only to remember, in a rare, offbeat moment of reality in the midst of a fantasy, that this was a dream: she could not touch them.

From somewhere within her, a great, inescapable pain began to well up, pulling at her heart within her breast, and she wanted to tear it out and fling it into the ocean, if only to rid herself of the aching sensation that was now filling her.  And the reality dawned on her again: she was pained by grief, and she was grieved because she was not with them.  No, instead, she was trapped in an endless labyrinth, trapped and held in her cage of black adamant-stone by a faceless phantom that she could not escape, not even here in her dreams.  

She called out to them, desperately, as the vision began to fade, the darkness returning, begging them to come, to come and find her…

Then she was in the midst of the labyrinth, and she was looking about herself, at the seeming hundreds of passageways that led off into the shadows: knowing that only one would take her out, and all others would lead her directly into the embrace of death.

_But better to face Death than to awaken in the arms of a demon._

Shining as a star fallen from the heavens to earth, she began to move down one pathway, hoping blindly, vainly, that it would be the one to take her out of this Light-forsaken place, but soon its twists and turns became too much for her, and the sandstone walls began to blur before her eyes; she put up one hand to her head, overcome with a sudden dizzy feeling that invaded her mind.  No, wait, this wasn't right, something was different here, there was someone there, someone with her, someone waiting just around a corner, just behind her, in front of her, everywhere…

"_You shouldn't run from me, princess…_" a hauntingly familiar voice called out to her from the shadows: distant and yet near.  

She ignored it and began to run, but the Voice followed her.  It sang musically from the shadows, morbidly cheerful and awfully, horribly brilliant, like the flash of light in one's eyes upon awakening from a lovely daydream.

"Don't run, princess – don't run, or I'll have to come after you…do you like to be chased, princess?  Because I _will_ chase you…if that is what you want…I'll even let you run for a while before I try to catch you…  Do you really want that, princess?  Do you?"

"Leave me _alone_!" she shouted angrily at the shadows, clapping both her hands down over her ears – as if that would keep the Voice out of her head.  

But it wouldn't go away.

"I don't want to leave you alone…I want _you_." it hissed, remaining playful and singsong, but with an edge of menace coming into its tone as well.  

This made Elowyn run all the faster, fear beginning to lay hold of her, tainting the blood in her veins with ice.  She sped along the passageway, which seemed to twist and turn, like the thrashing body of a gigantic, wrathful basilisk: writhing in the dust.  Still, the Voice: musical, vibrant as that of any supremely well-trained singer, and, again, hauntingly familiar in its cool, elegant, cultured tone, which seemed to ring in her head like a bell.

_I want you I want you I want you._

She stopped, refusing to run another step further, and screamed at the bloodstained sky—

"Why?  Why are you doing this to me?"

Then, from right behind her—

"Why not, princess?  Don't _you_ want it as well?  For although you think that you are aware of your heart's innermost desires, you've not really even begun to read them…to _know _them.  But _I_ can read your heart – I can, if you would let me, and I could tell you of things beyond your wildest dreams…"

And suddenly, a pair of long, coldly powerful, and very possessive arms came around her, from behind; she felt herself pulled backwards, up against someone – someone who was very much taller than her, who was slender and yet hard as rock all at the same time, and cold, so very, very cold…  

Then, a whisper in her ears: "Well, _don't_ you, princess?  Don't you want to know the things I could tell you?  There's so much I would have to say…so very much, and we could have all eternity to say it in…I could give you anything, princess, did you know that?"

His lips were right next to her ear now, brushing against it as they moved with his words.  Elowyn felt as if she was being compelled to conform to the wishes of the person who stood behind her…and all at once, she _wanted_ to.  

She wanted to lean back against him, to let him tell her about everything that was in his heart, and _hers_ as well; she wanted him to caress her with his words, and hold her close, and whisper in her ear little nothings that meant everything and anything…

"There is nothing I couldn't give you," she heard him whisper. "I won't let you go…"

She closed her eyes, leaning against him, her shoulder blades pressing hard into his chest, as her arms sought his.

"Don't let me go…" she whispered back.

_East wind, oh my East wind,_

_You've gone, but you're not far – _

_I'll find you somehow._

_For chasing dreams is all I can do,_

_And you're not gone,_

And I won't let you go…

"_No_." she heard the one behind her rasp, as if he had just been struck in the heart by an arrow, and then the whole fantasy began to slide away, to fall away like the cracking outer mold of a statue, weathered with age.  The light began to sweep in, chasing away the shadows like bats, clearing the cobwebs from her mind and the blur from her vision: tearing off the veil…

_And she could see again…_

Without a moment's further hesitation or blindness, she did exactly as her reawakening mind told her to do: she shoved the one who held her violently away, jabbing him viciously in the stomach with her elbows, and whirled around.  

He had fallen back, away from her, and was now backing away, into the shadows, both arms wrapped tight around his slender, hard stomach, nearly bent double.  She could see him, but only just: he was a vague form in the darkness, but she knew that something was different.  This one was not like the specter who had first come so close to her in the Tower: this was the voice from the woods, and yet, she at last felt as if they were one and the same.

Glaring at the form with fulminating eyes alight with jade-green fire, she bit out the words: "You release me _right now_."

Suddenly, the whole scene before her shuddered: sandstone walls, pathway, blood-red sky and all, and then she felt the cold air of her prison room upon her once more, and she was conscious again.  Someone shrieked out what had to have been a vehement curse of pain in some language that she did not know, as the spell that he had placed on her in order to hack into her mind recoiled on him, shooting his mind out of hers.  

Elowyn opened her eyes, sitting up in that same instant.  

Sitting across from her on the bed, holding his head in both of his arms, was the one who had bewitched her, and for such a dangerously long time.  Elowyn knew that if she hadn't somehow managed to break free of his enchantment – and she still didn't know how she had done it, or if it were even her doing – something awful would have happened.  

He would have had control of her _mind_.  

Drawing her legs up to herself and draping her hands over them, she watched with quiet, morbid amusement as her companion rocked back and forth where he sat across from her, wracked with what appeared to be waves of great, agonizing pain.  

But so awful that pain seemed to be that she felt pricked by pity…

Although that was before she remembered just who and what she was dealing with.

On her hands and knees, she crawled over to him and grabbed one of his gloved hands by the wrist, holding it in a vice-like grip, and with cold, determined sea-green eyes, she looked into the shadowed face of her captor.  He made a strange, high-pitched sound that might have almost been considered a wail, or a sob, of some sort, but she allowed him no quarter.

"You unbelievable idiot," she murmured. "You really _are_ absolutely _mad_, aren't you?"

From beneath his arms, which – she now realized – were acting as a sort of shield for him to hide his face from her, he replied in a voice hoarse and strained with pain, "You don't really think that I let you go because you forced me to, did you?"

Elowyn smirked, still amused by his pain.

"What else could have made you release me?"

The arms jerked down, and she found herself staring into a pair of violet-gray eyes that seemed to be alight, even in the early predawn shadows.  Somehow, _they_ were entrancing now…

"You have quite a distracting beauty – didn't you know that?"

Now, _that_ was an underhanded stab in the gut right there.

Elowyn had never experienced the pros and cons of either a high self-esteem or an exceptionally low one, but she had never once in her life had any misconceptions about her appearance.  Faeries were generally fair of face as far as the world was concerned, but she had always felt that she was one of the more or less bland lot: the faeries who were good enough to look at, but were really rather far from dazzling, or unnervingly, peerlessly beautiful.  She was no Ella or Vahlada, and no Arielle or Galena, and _certainly_ no Odessa-Gadriel.  And so now her gaze went from the sharpness of penknives to daggers.

"You unbelievable—"

And, without giving him a moment's time to react, she lunged forward and knocked him – lovely, _both_ of them – off of the bed.  But, in spite of her cat-like fighting tactics, he had her beaten within two seconds.  

The dim outline of his face looked down on her as she reclined there on the cold, hard black floor, hair flying about her face.  In that moment, she at last noticed something about him: that he no longer wore the hood and burial mask, she had already seen, but now she saw that his skull was completely bereft of hair, shaved so closely that not a hint of it could be seen.  His chin was very close to her eye level.

"You know, oddly enough, I find it incredibly intriguing when you call me the most indescribable names, princess – it simply _breathes_ of excitement and adventure, and it certainly makes your lips form the most alluring syllables, quite enchanting me…"

"I _could_ bite you again."

A warm, velvety, truly amused and mellifluous laugh from the shadows above her.

"Oh no, my sweet one; I don't think we have time for that, at least right at the moment.  For, you see," Then his hand was running its fingers alongside her cheek again, caressing her so that she felt absolutely enraged by even that simple touch, "I have a realm to attend to, and distracting as you are, I simply _cannot_ indulge you at every moment."

Then, to his feet he swept, bringing her up with him as if she was a fine lady of the court, and he the handsome swain who had just gallantly rescued her.  Elowyn found herself deposited once more onto the bed, in the most irritating, patronizing manner.  Her companion backed away, long red and gold brocade cloak swirling around him like a desert mist, as he raised one hand to his lips, kissing it softly with a gesture to her as he moved off.  

"So now I must bid you farewell, my little fiery one, and never fear – I'll not leave you entirely alone.  Look out your window when the sun has risen, and you will see that I've requested that some friends stay behind to watch over you."

"And when will _you_ be back for the pleasure of another visit?" she spat, venomously.

In dark amusement, which chilled her to the core, "Oh, I would not worry about that, little princess.  _For I am always near to you, whether you are aware of it or not…_"

Then he was gone, and a dragon flew up in the sky in his place.    

Elowyn began cursing in old-fashioned faery again.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Read on!  A few more details about Jaedin will soon be revealed – try, within the next few chapters…?  Review, I implore you!


	13. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven – 

Possibilities of Some Truly Interesting Entertainment

Eight days had passed since Jaedin had gone to Lærelin, eight days had passed since he had kidnapped the princess Elowyn and brought her back to his dark kingdom in Sytherria, and still there had been no word from she who ruled the Black City, beyond the fiery mountains of Neldyr.  

Jaedin had tired of waiting for his lady queen to do as her part of their bargain demanded long before those eight days were over; now, his greatest thought was in regard of how he might use his task to better himself, even if that was to prove rather difficult…

*                       *                       *

A great crowd of the Dark Lord's own court had gathered in the enormous coliseum that was within the black palace; so many people were in it that not a few had adjourned to the outer wings that surrounded the huge open space, there to meander and promenade as garishly as they might at court.  But this today no court was being held – today, instead, they had all come to see a string of _executions_.

Rákkhed Dahk-Marr came to his master's seat, which was to be found at the very center of the crescent-shaped spectator area: a tall, daunting throne that seemed to loom, complete with its awning of black silk and gold hangings, over the coliseum's sandy floor.  He had been attending to his other duties about the city, acting his part of captain of the guard and leader of the Antari, and now it was with reluctance that he made his way to his lord.

Sytherria was not without its occasional quirks of disquiet, and every now and then, some addle-headed ion-brain got the idea into his head that he ought to try and raise a rebellion.  _Ríth-Anstarinaor_, living up to his dreaded name, caught each dissident neatly in the palm of his gloved hands each time, and dispensed with every one of those involved in a revolt almost with a seeming amusement.  It was almost more of a social and entertaining event when an execution of whatever fools had tried to get out from under the Dark Lord's rule was staged, and that was why so many of those who belonged to the court of _Dranthiris-Ankhar_ had flocked to the palace that day.

The Dark Lord was already at his throne, looking out over the area with a cool, detached aura to his gaze: violet-gray eyes scanning the crowds, the coliseum itself, and, namely, the row of stakes that had been set up in the center of the area.  

He looked quite emotionless: merciless and brutal, in a Spartan way, in his shiny black leather tunic, gauntlets, and boots – his breeches and the long black cloak that he wore, casually spilling over one arm of his throne, the only more reserved parts to his garb.  The quantity of unrelieved black made his pale skin seem even more stark, drawing attention to his shaved skull and proud features.  Rákkhed could already see a throng of black-garbed ladies of the Sytherrian court twisted around him.

_All vying for the attention that they will never get, knowing _him_,_ he thought, acerbically, as he shouldered his way through the crowd, which eventually began to part for him, standing back in respect to allow the captain of the Antari – their lord's most favored servants – pass through.  

When he had reached the throne, Rákkhed took the hand that was extended to him from the depths of the seat and bowed low over it, sinking down on one knee, before rising when the hand withdrew and gestured for him to do so.  From the heretofore silent, brooding figure in the throne, then, "And how did you leave our little captive this morning, Captain?"

Rákkhed straightened the rest of the way and stood to one side of the throne, locking his hands behind himself and looking out over the crowd with as impassive a look in his eyes as that that was in his master's.  Behind those startling black diamonds, however, a very faint flame flickered, but only Rákkhed himself could have known that it was there. 

"As disinterested and yet ill-humored as ever, milord."

Jaedin narrowed his eyes a bit, until he was looking through the quivering slits that his long eyelashes made in his vision, and pursed his full lips, sinking down a bit further in his chair.  It had to be noted that the Dark Lord, however many hundreds of thousands of years old he happened to be, most often affected the behavior and posture of an arrogant seventeen-year-old.

"Well then…perhaps I ought to do something to make her otherwise.  The ball tonight – Rákkhed," turning so that the shaven head and aesthetic face now looked up at him, "Do you think that, perhaps, we might extend her an invitation?"

Rákkhed let his expression become quite dry and sardonic.

"It might prove to be quite interesting, my lord," he replied, without allowing what his true thoughts and take on the matter were to be hidden.

Jaedin sent him a sharp, mock-wounded glare before turning back around in his seat, simultaneously waving off the courtier who approached him with an offering of a goblet filled with some indescribably dark liquid of who-knew-what.  

Then, as a griping adolescent might, "It would most certainly prove interesting, to say the _least_, Captain Dahk-Marr – I would have thought that _you_ of all people could find the wits within you to imagine some possibilities of truly interesting entertainment…but, now I digress – there are other matters at hand to be dealt with."

And with that, he rose from his seat and stood before the assembly, raising both hands for quiet.  Within a moment, the dull roar of the crowd of those gathered had come to a halt, and all faces, or a great many at that, had turned towards him.

Rákkhed, however, turned to _leave_, not to listen, knowing that now what the crowd had deemed as worthy 'entertainment' – the execution of the latest band of revolutionaries, forty-odd Traktharrs, an odd race of people with the features of bats, but all the other outward characteristics of humans – was about to begin.  He had witnessed far too many displays of his master's ultimate and uncontestable power to find any pleasure in them now.

And he had begun to wonder if he ever had.

*                       *                       *

The Antari, being an immortal race but not gifted with magic: their only powers of enchantment being those of the martial arts, had been with the Dark Lord from the very first moment that he had entered the realm of Sytherria.  Over the countless millenniums that they had been there with him, they had all learnt well how to adapt to the scorching desert climate that had been the cause of death and destruction for so many.  

Thus, the terrible heat of the midday sun and the ever-present threat of sudden sandstorms was hardly a matter of concern for Captain Rákkhed Dahk-Marr as he made his exeunt from one of the bastions that fronted the palace's towering, thick black walls, and went out onto the battlements.  Archers and other members of the Dark Lord's forces were already there, patrolling the perimeter – as if there were really any need for them to do so, Rákkhed thought in hardly veiled scorn as he passed along the wall, sentries halting in their rounds to acknowledge him as he passed by.

Rákkhed had been Jaedin's most faithful and ardent servant from the first day that he could remember, a point in time that was so long ago that he himself could hardly remember it.  In all truth, the Antari hardly knew anything of their own pasts, which was incredibly odd; everyone, surely, even the Dark Lord himself, had a past – but neither he nor his devoted servants could exactly name theirs.  All the Antari knew was that they had suddenly one day been aware of the fact that they were living, and that they must serve, without failing, the one whose name had been taken from the god of night, and shadows: Jaedin.  And what did the Dark Lord know of his own past?  Well, whatever he knew, he was not telling.

But the thing that was troubling Rákkhed now, as he stood upon the outer wall of the palace of _Dranthiris-Ankhar_, looking out over the stretching sands of the Sytherrian desert, was a deep-rooted, soul-shaking doubt that had begun to gnaw away at his soul.  

The Antari had a vow: they would serve their lord, and only him, no matter what, come what may.  They called down a curse upon themselves and all of those like them if they ever turned against their lord – he _knew_ this.  But then why – why…?  Why what?

Irritated, Rákkhed pushed himself forcefully away from the wall and began to pace again, the other beings on the ramparts moving out of his way as he strode past them.

_Why_, was the question.  And it was a multi-faceted question indeed – why had he begun to doubt, and what exactly was his doubt?  He would remain faithful to his lord to the very end…but there was something, something botched and wrong about everything…although he knew not what that something was.  The Dark Lord was his master, may his sword turn against him if he ever turned against his master…

*                       *                       *

Night fell over Sytherria, and the thousands of members of the court that had, that day, attended the exclusive entertainment of a show in which the latest round of revolutionaries had been dispensed with by the Dark Lord, now flocked to _Dranthiris-Ankhar_'s inner chambers.  A great banquet and then revelries was to be held that night, and there was not many of that dark kingdom that fully desired to miss out on it.

In the Tower of Adamant, Elowyn stood at the window and looked out over the labyrinth in which she had been imprisoned, watching the sun begin to set in the horizon, falling slowly beneath the dark earth and turning the sky to a deep blood-red, and then purple-black.  The desert winds still blew warm and humid against her cheek, stirring her pale golden curls, as the sands below her began to cool, and the walls of the labyrinth to turn to a chalky gray.  

Far off in the distance, she could see a faint red glow coming from the place where she now knew her captor made his home: something was happening there tonight, she could tell, but what it was, she had no idea…

And really, she didn't give a care.

The sun dropped behind the horizon and evening further waned into night.  Having nothing else to do now that the stars were each in their positions – composing constellations that she had never seen before, and did not remotely know, which told her just how far away she was from her home – she turned and went back inside of her prison, gazing at its black interior with a similar cast to her sea-green eyes.

Black, black – all was black.

She'd tried not to think about her parents, her family, her home, and friends in those last few days, knowing inherently that her dark enemy would try to use that longing against her if he could.   He seemed bent on tormenting her until her mind cracked and she went insane.

But she wouldn't think about him – not now; not when, for once, he _wasn't_ there with her, in spirit or in person.

Well, going to bed seemed as if it was as good as a choice as she might get right at the moment.  It was either stay up and try to find a new way of whiling away her solitary hours in the tower, or go to sleep – and she didn't feel like considering just what her captor and his Queen's plans might be for her.  He had mentioned them several times, but only very vaguely, which bothered her…

Then…

"My lady." a slightly accented, clear voice said from behind her, suddenly.

Elowyn froze where she stood.

After a moment, the voice continued, speaking quickly and tersely, as if in extreme haste, "Making one's way out of this labyrinth was made to be impossible, Child of the Faeries, but I have come to tell you that there is a way for you to make your escape from this dark place.  Listen carefully now – tonight, your captor intends to have you join him at his palace, for a banquet is to be held there.  His emissaries—" 

And somehow, from the way that last word was spoken, Elowyn could tell that whatever people her jailer was sending wouldn't be any typical messengers.  _Oh Fates…_

"They will be arriving shortly to ready you for the revelries.  Do as they tell you, and go with him to the palace, _Dranthiris-Ankhar_.  There, when the lights go out, run as if there is no tomorrow – for there may not be a tomorrow for you if you do not take this chance tonight."

"And how will I get out of this palace that you speak of?" she asked.  Her head was whirling with a thousand thoughts.  _Could this be a trap?  No…oh, I pray not!  But who is this person?_ "How am I supposed to escape such a fortress?"

"We will help you." the voice came back.

_We?_

"We will allow you to escape, but we can only do this _after_ you have made it out of the palace itself.  Once you are in the city, we can help you.  Look for your old friend, the winged stallion, whom my master has kept in his stables since shortly after you arrived here – he will come for you, once we have released him."

Elowyn felt herself assailed by a thousand and one emotions – doubts, questions, and other thoughts flooded into her mind, threatening to burst her head.  Who was this person, and why did he – or rather, _they_ – want to help her?  Wasn't she a prisoner of their master, and they his faithful servants?  Was this all some trick of her captor?

Then she did turn around, narrowing her eyes, and sent out a mental probe for dark magic in the air, the trace of evil power that she had learned would warn her of her captor's presence – but could find no such thing.  _Unless he has learnt to transcend that, and truly make himself invisible to anyone's eyes, even those of magic – which is almost unthinkable…_

"Who are you, and how can I trust you?" she called out.

A stern, commanding figure in black robes materialized out of the shadows that were beyond the doorway that led down the flight of steps of the tower, and she found herself looking into a strange new face: that of an impassively attractive man, who wore a large, silvery pendant with a blood-red stone at its center and a long, curving sword at his side, and who had two identical, swirling black tattoos upon his cheekbones, just below his eyes.  

They regarded one another in silence for a moment, and Elowyn at last realized that this man, whomever he was, was totally without _any_ trace of magic.  Completely untouched by it: he was not faery, not Elven, and certainly not giant or dwarf, but he was not mortal either.  In fact, she couldn't tell what he was, but she could almost see the traces of magic that were in the air falling away from him, as if they were dust, and he had some invisible shield about him.  

_Strange_…

Then this meant, she suddenly realized, that she could trust him.  This was no phantom, no specter or product of enchantment, this man standing before her.  This person, this figure, was simply, and inexplicably, without a doubt, _real_.  Real, however, in a way that she could hardly comprehend: for in his eyes she could see the knowledge and memories of millenniums, and yet she could see neither age nor enchantment upon him – but _real_.

He spoke.

"I am Rákkhed Dahk-Marr, and I am of the Antari, who serve the lord of Sytherria: the one who has kept you these eight days in duress while awaiting the coming of his lady, the Ebony Queen, to his fortress.  But we have no time – you must choose now whether you wish to trust the word of the Antari, and take your chance to escape…or not."

Elowyn looked at him for a long moment then, trying to process all of this.  

_The Antari_…  She had read about them, been taught about them in her history lessons, although most of her knowledge had actually come from Gavin and her other brothers, who were interested in the ancient legends and stories of war and conquest.  But now _this_ – she had never expected to meet one of them!  They were the race of beings that served the Dark Lord of Sytherria, above all others: his elite guard, a people who neither had magic, nor could be affected by it.  Timeless they were, without age, and the fiercest of combatants in confrontations, feared for ages by the other peoples of the earth.

And they wanted to help _her_ escape.

"Why?" she asked him. "Why are you doing this – why do you want to help me, against the will of your dread Lord?"

The Dark Lord of Sytherria – her captor!

Rákkhed regarded her with his solemn, black diamond eyes.

"We serve Jaedin, Lord of Sytherria, and him alone," he told her; then, with a flicker of a smile upon his lips, he added, "And sometimes, fair princess, this means that we must also protect him from himself." And with that, he bowed to her and then stepped backwards, into the shadows: seeming to become one himself.  His words floated back to her from the darkness.

"Go with him to the palace, and make your move to escape when all of the lights go out – that is your signal from me, telling you that it is safe for you to run, for no one will be able to see in such immense darkness…"

"And I can only _imagine_ the chaos." Elowyn remarked, a slight grim curve etching onto her lips.  Then, there was only silence, and she knew he had gone.

So, as suddenly as her kidnapping had happened, a way for her to finally escape – _escape_!  How she had dreamed of it! – had come to her, and from a most unexpected source.  The Antari were fanatically, everlastingly devoted to their Lord…but sometimes, as the one who had spoken to her had revealed, this meant that they must also protect him from himself.

But she had no time to wonder on this.

Orpheus was here, and she would make her escape with him.  Now, as she thought about it, she knew that the poor creature had likely gone just about out of his mind when the panic waves caused by her kidnapping had reached the Avalennon stables, and he had somehow managed to follow her here, to Sytherria.

Sytherria: the desert kingdom across the sea from Lærelin and the other countries that she knew best.  Sytherria, the arid land that stretched into the ether of the earth just beyond Elvendome!  _Sytherria, the domain of Jaedin, __S'ríth-Anstarinaor._      

The Antari would help her escape, but only after she had made it out of the Dark Lord's palace, this _Dranthiris-Ankhar_.  She prayed to the Fates, each of the Seven Powers of the World, and to the Three Themselves that she would be able to do this.

For she did not know what awaited her otherwise.

Escape.

_I'm going home, and soon this will all be no more than a bad dream…_

_Won't it?_

*                       *                       *

Less than a quarter of an hour after she had had her meeting with the Captain of the Antari in the darkened tower, Elowyn was alerted by her powers of enchantment – however weakened they now were by the Dark Lord's spells on her prison – that someone was approaching.  It turned out to be a group of eight someone's, actually: eight exotic, black-veiled houris, all of whom entered the tower bearing various burdens in their arms, and all of whom sent her dagger-like glares from their almond-shaped eyes of sparkling amber.

Jaedin had sent them, several ladies of his court, to attend the princess whom he had captured and held prisoner at his Lady's behest in his tower.  They had been given orders to prepare her for the banquet and revelries that were to be held at _Dranthiris-Ankhar_ that night, and to prepare her well, for the Dark Lord himself would be keeping her at his side all through the festivities, as his consort.  

_His consort_!  The Sytherrian ladies' rage and jealousy knew no bounds.  This slender, sharp-tongued little shrew, this pale, green-eyed faery bratling, had suddenly captivated the Dark Lord – whose attentions that they had been vying for over the past who-knew how many years!  Every one of them looked at Elowyn: standing before them in all her sublime, light-filled radiance and innocence, so different from their evil-tainted charms, and seethed inside, barely hiding her loathing for the girl.  

How could it be that the Dark Lord could find her so entrancing, so utterly irresistible?  Was not each of them ten times lovelier than _any_ faery?  Were they not each the most peerless beauties of the Dark Realm?

But they had their orders, and they could not very well refuse _or_ disobey the Dark Lord without some threat of retribution from he whom they so desired.

And so now they went to work.

Wordless and hostile, frosty in their irritation, they closed in around her and began the process of transforming her into a courtier worthy of joining in on their dark fête: transforming her into _one of them_.  The simple black gown that she'd worn for the past several days of her confinement was whisked away; her hair was let down from its braid and brushed out, and through it, someone ran fingers coated with a strange pomade: the fragrance of which reminded her of sandalwood.  Perfumed oils and other sorts of balms, smelling of mysterious, alluring substances – frangipani, tuberose, jasmine, and bergamot – were slathered all over her body, until her skin glowed a strange new bronze, smooth and flawless.

While her hair was twisted and styled atop her head, with jewels strung into its masses and a veil cascading down her swan-like, fine-boned neck, down her straight shoulders, down her lissome and slender back, her gown was prepared.  

_A gown –_ another_ gown.  Bloody underworlds._

Her face looked frightening, she thought, when she looked into the mirror.  Some sort of thick, black kohl had been used to rim her eyes, making her lids and eyelashes stand out even more than they usually did: a vivid contrast to her jade-coloured eyes.  They had dusted her skin with a perfumed powder as well, which sparkled and glowed at turns when the light touched upon it, and a deep, dark gloss had been painted onto her lips, setting off the whiteness of her even teeth.  

Then, at the very last, they encased her in the gown: a revolting affair of dark jewels, gold, silks and veils, exposing her skin to the warm nighttime air of Sytherria, with heavy, gem-ridden jewelry to accompany it.  Finally, Elowyn was allowed to see herself fully, marking now the change that had been wreaked upon her.  

Oh yes, the handmaids of the Dark Lord had done their job—

And done it _well_.  

She was as dark as any one of them – she looked as if she were just another contemptible jewel of the Dark Lord's court: one of his retinue, tainted with his loathsome, inescapable, compelling evil…but beneath the painted face, beneath the silks and gold-ridden straps, she was Elowyn: Princess of Faeries, who would never succumb to the darkness.

_Do as you please, __S'ríth-Anstarinaor n'et Sytherria.  I _will_ escape you.  _

*                       *                       *

Shortly after that, the eight ladies left her, disappearing into the night.

Elowyn was left in the silky shadows to await the coming of her despised escort, the Dark Lord himself.  As she stood at her small balcony and looked out over the sands of the Sytherrian desert, glimmering a silvery white under the moon's beaming face, she immersed herself within new thoughts – for she now had _much_ more to think about.

How odd, she thought, that she hadn't had the presence of mind to figure out for herself who her dark captor really was.  He had referred to the fact that he ruled a realm and the fact that he served a Queen often enough, and that alone should have tipped her off.  She knew the ancient faery history well; it was shocking to her that she hadn't seen the truth before.  Perhaps he had weakened her powers even more than she'd thought – or her wits were simply beginning to rust and decay horribly in her dark prison-tower.

The Dark Lord of Sytherria had always been knight to the Ebony Queen, who was a purportedly beautiful but mysterious and evil sorceress, whose origins were a mystery to everyone.  The Dark Lord himself seemed to have no past whatsoever but that in which he had served the Queen.  

Of course, it was rumored – in legend and in the history tomes – that there was a tie of some sort between them, but even the best and most learned of historians could only guess what _that_ was.  All anyone knew for sure was that the Dark Lord had been with her for more than five hundred thousand years, and that he would serve the will of none other.

Now, the Queen had not always been the predominant figure in the Dark Realm that she had grown to be since the Battle for Avalennon, which had seen the crowning of Orandor Raven-Helm as the ruler of the entire faery race.  No, there had been a time when there was no such ruler among the heads of that malevolent place; instead, several different figures had held sway of the court and all of the creatures and beings there, and they had been the most powerful of their kinds.  In the days since the Dark Realm's greatest defeat, it seemed that the Queen had slowly won over all to her will, making devoted subjects of every last living or undead creature of evil, and only recently, since her uncle Brendan's last return from his sojourns, had they learned of her rise to power.

They had thought it was over.  They had thought that the Queen was a distant, weakened power, like all of the other rulers of the Dark Realm.  They had thought that he – that Jaedin, the Dark Lord – was gone.

_Gone?  Ha!  _

Not while hidden plans, prophecies of imminent doom, and wraiths remained.  And now, here she was – here rested the world, with war fast sweeping down upon it…

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Ah, but don't expect to be alone for long, Elowyn!  Your escort will soon arrive to sweep you off to his dark palace, and what awaits you there?

Cast list:

Rakkhed Dahk-Marr: Oded Fehr


	14. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve – 

The Dark Lord and the Princess:

A Conversation of Utterly Wicked Intent

She was started from her deep, concentrated train of thought by the swoop of gigantic wings on the air, and the sharp, feral, ragged shriek of a dragon: a huge, black dragon, split the night air.  Slowly, she rose to her feet: silk slipping down into place about her, and stared out the window with blank, unreadable eyes.

He had come for her.

The flames in the torches that had been placed about the room quivered, then suddenly sparked and burned brighter, before sinking into a ruby glow that was barely there.  Elowyn was abruptly aware of how the shadows seemed to come alive, and slither and slide, like snakes, around her.  There were so many of them – it was so dark that she could hardly see…

A voice came from behind her, seeming to emanate from and center itself in the doorway that led down to the stairwell.  It was a voice that, frightening enough for her to realize, she knew well – a voice that was not quite tenor and not quite baritone, but velvety and dry: full of wit and cynicism and sarcasm, and elegant, speaking each word, each syllable, with refinement and clarity.

"Join me for a walk in the twisted woods, Princess?"

A tall, shadowy figure was suddenly there, walking in a slow, meandering circle around her, and she could feel a pair of eyes gazing at her, moving up to her head, then down to her feet, taking in her glittering raiment.  She stood still and put on the usual expression that she utilized when dealing with him.  _It._  She felt as if she'd just had an awful, disgusting memory when she thought of him.

"There aren't any woods in this sickening lair of yours, Lord of the Darkness," she said, speaking clearly and coldly to the shadows. "There is only a big, gray wolf that I intend to avoid at all costs, for he is a loathsome creature."

Then a hand came out of nowhere, molding itself around hers: fingers gloved in the smoothest black leather that she had ever seen moving to twine themselves with hers, and she looked up, slowly: ever so slowly raising her head, sliding her gaze from the two hands to a slender waist – a torso – then a muscular chest – broad shoulders – neck – shadowed face.  Again, she could only barely make out his features, so darkened was the room, but she could also see that his head was perfectly shaved, skull bereft of any hair whatsoever.  

She also caught sight of the occasional gleam of a pair of violet-gray eyes from within those shadows, and it didn't matter to her whether she could really see him or not – he could, in all likeliness, see her perfectly.  So she sent him the most venomous look she could call up from the depths of her soul.  

A delighted chuckle came from her companion, and the hand raised itself, and hers, until both had pillowed themselves against his chest: her palm flattened onto the cool surface of what felt and looked like some very hard and shiny black leather of some sort.

"Ah yes, but since the wolf is the _only_ guide who might take the princess safely through the treacherous forest…" came the voice again: a cloak of nearly transparent, shimmering red material was whisked around her shoulders, seeming to come out of thin air, and the gloved fingers moved to tie the golden fastenings on the front of it.

Elowyn couldn't help but counter—

"Only to deliver her into the domain of his true sovereign, the ghoul sitting in her cavern at the other end of the wood?  I think, dark one, that the princess would prefer to take her chances with the treacherous _forest_…"

Then there was silence for a moment.

Darkly, with more than just a hint of menace, "Then the princess would not live to see the light of day again, for the forest is far more twisted, far more malicious and toxically evil, and far more diabolical _than she could ever imagine_."

The last five words were said with a deliberate, cold punctuation that sent chills up and down her spine, nearly paralyzing her on the spot with fear.  This was a Dark Lord she was dealing with – not just some craven knight; she knew that now.  

She couldn't simply snap off at him whatever she wanted to say, not if she wanted to even have that chance to escape that the Antari had promised her.  This newest nemesis of hers was far more dangerous, far more lethal than a viper and far more undying and lasting a foe than any corrupted wraith, than she could imagine.

Would she _ever_ be able to _truly_ escape him?

*                       *                       *

The revelries at _Dranthiris-Ankhar _whirled into being: a horrid cacophony of movement and noise, composed of hundreds of bodies knotted together into one huge, dark mass; and the palace itself was lit by a disturbing, blood-red glow, making it seem as if it was an immense volcanic stone that ever-living, evil fires burned inside of: sending off a dull humming noise from without, pulsating with mind-breaking noise from within.

Every wing of the fortress, every room, seemed to be filled with the guests of the Dark Lord: from banquet hall to ballroom, the chaos went on.  And in the underworld-like structure that was the throne room, the festivities had centered, as the masses gathered in mind-breaking chaos about their Dark Lord's seat there.  

With cold, unreadable eyes of a truly strange and unearthly hue of silvery gray, Jaedin watched the tumult: aloof and unresponsive in his black throne.  Beside him, reclining on the shining floor of the dais that the throne rested upon, was a figure that the dark court of Sytherria had never before met, save in the words of rumor—

Princess Elowyn of the faeries: the child of prophecy.

The bedlam around her was truly disconcerting, even for an adventurous free-spirit like herself; for even Elowyn had never ventured into one of the dark courts, because of the rules that her parents had made for her, in order to protect her from just this – being kidnapped and held prisoner by some party of the Dark Realm, who would do almost anything to get its hands on her because of the ancient prophecy.  But here she was, and there was no way that she could get out, until the captain of the Antari gave her his signal…and, as it was, she really didn't want to venture into the horde of fiendish costumed figures that she now saw before her.

Right now, playing the part of the Dark Lord's pretty little doll was the only choice that she had – her only way of knowing that she was safe.  _Safer_, at least, than she would be had she gone out into the midst of those guests.  

She eyed them warily.

Just then, she felt her captor's leg – which she was somewhat leaning against, in a vain attempt to conceal herself in the shadows beneath the throne – move against the bared skin of her back.  She sat up straight, trying to hide her disgust at his touch.  His wry voice murmured down to her, through the pandemonium—

"The princess has no wish to join the banquet, I take it?"   

Staring off into the tangle of twisting and swaying bodies, with black kohl-rimmed eyes that shone bright behind their makeup, she replied, "_No_, she _doesn't_."

Faintly amused, "And I wondered why they found it all so hard to believe that I saw you as far more interesting than any other lady at my court – how can it be any more obvious?  Even when you look like them, it is impossible to tell that you are anything _but_ one of them.  They are all the same, princess – can't you see it?  They are all of the same mettle, of identical thought and will and desire…each would like to be queen of a realm, and there is no effort in their attempts to disguise which exact realm they would like to be queen and sovereign of…"

Fingers came under her chin then, as he leaned forward and gazed long and searchingly into her face: his own features so heavily obscured by shadows that she could not see him. 

He murmured, for her ears and hers alone: "But _you_…you, Princess of the Faeries…I _know_ what you are, and _who you are_, and if I would have to go through each world in the universe and destroy everything in my path to at last attain what I most desire…"

_You would not hesitate for a moment._

He was trying to mesmerize her again – to lull her into that black void where there was no thought but for that of him.  She knew full well that his powers had the ability to reach her, to touch her and even drive away any thought of her own free will, of her own mind, but only if she let him.  _She_ also had a great power: and that was the strength of the Light within her, which could drive back the darkness, once she had called it to herself.

She had this power, and _he_ knew it.

The only way that he would ever force her into giving in to his will, they both well knew, was if he could take total control of her mind – if he became her master.

_Oh, scheming sprite, how evil your ways will be, once you unleash them!_

Elowyn reached up, moving her hand from its resting place on the floor, and draped her fingers onto the elegant wrist that was just below her chin; raising her eyes, she looked once more into the gleaming eyes of her captor, and let a faint curve come to her lips: a smile that hinted at hidden secrets, and more than her words were saying…

"You do indeed _deeply desire something_, don't you…" she murmured.  

Then, she stood, slowly rising to her feet before him; she leaned over him, placing both hands on the armrests of the throne, bending her head to whisper into his ear.  

Her voice a low and throaty whisper, she concluded, "But will you ever have it?  Will you ever be able to hunt it down, as the rapacious wolf that preys in the darkened, twisted woods might – will you ever gain that which you would give your soul to possess…?"

In a sudden flurry of glittering gold and jewels, spinning silks and veil, the ruby lights glancing upon her as she moved, she stepped away and spun out: graceful sandaled feet flicking across the mirror-like black onyx floor.

She turned: beckoned.

_Evil little sprite – are you certain of what you do?_

The spirit of the room took over her actions and behavior: she became one with the music that whirled around her, moving out onto the floor where other black-garbed figures spun about.  A song, strange and nothing like she had ever heard before, ran through her head, and she let it take her along with it, carrying her into the depths of the shadows.  

_This is fire you are playing so glibly with…_

_Beware…now you are wicked as well…beware…_

_You are falling._

And she was – the shadows were all about her, and she was melding into them, dancing within the flickering darkness where faces did not exist and anything could find her…but was falling really falling, when she had _meant_ to?

Then she felt a presence near her: a pair of eyes that had focused on her, and her alone.  She turned around, lashes gradually easing up from her vision, unveiling the sharp, untamable depths of sea green that rested beyond them.  

A figure stood a little ways off from her: tall, muscular, garbed in sinister black and gold, features hidden by the shadows that slid in between them, and then away again.  Elowyn paused, her silken skirts swirling around her as she ceased to move, and stared back.  _Be careful, Elowyn: this is flame that you are playing with…_

He held out his hand.

The entire dark court came a complete standstill, everyone turning to watch – what would happen now?  Then…

Full, painted lips curving, the faery princess twirled in: stepping directly into the embrace of the dark form who stood before her, looking up and back over her shoulder so that their gazes met; their hands entwined, assuming a dance pose – and then, after a single moment longer of complete pause, they began the dance again, together.  

Moving as one across the floor, spinning away and then returning to one another again, glorying in and then rejecting, dipping and lashing out, the Dark Lord and the faery princess flung all thought of who and what they were far away, for those few precious moments: entranced by only each other.

_Ríth-Anstarinaor n'et Sytherria…who would have imagined…_

Gray eyes, gazing into hers: a presence on her mind – _This is what you have wanted; do you see it now?  This is all you've ever wanted…_

Music, pounding in her head.

Shadows, giving in, treachery of the darkness.

_Giving in – surrender…but of whom?_

Outburst.

*                       *                       *

Elowyn felt her dark companion's arms go rigid, tightening around her, as she whirled to face the one who had just attacked her.  She raised her hand, taking it from his, and put it to her cheek, upon which she could feel five lines of pure, stinging fire.  Then she looked up, shoulder blades brushing against the black-armored chest of he who stood behind her, and stared, with widened, incredulous eyes, at her assailant.

An alto-toned and silky voice hissed at her, like a snake.

"So, has it now come to this," it said, dripping with venom, and malicious spite, "Suddenly, the Dark Lord has not only forgotten who _he_ is, but his precious little prisoner also loses beyond sight or recall the truth of _her own self_.  How is it that she dares stoop to such deception?"

More than just a slight ripple of anger went through Elowyn; the dark magic of the moment before had now been broken, shattered into a million pieces like a fallen mirror, and now reality returned: she was standing there, in the middle of the shadow-filled court, in the arms of her captor, as both of them faced the Sytherrian lady who now stood before them: venom-tainted flames of rage and dire jealousy radiating off of her.

The figure of the Dark Lord moved: stepped around her, although his hands never left her.  He was tall – so very tall, Elowyn thought – how could she have _not_ noticed that before?  She could barely see around his straight, slender back, and those broad, powerful shoulders and arms, to the form of the lady who had raked her talon-like nails across Elowyn's cheek, unable to contain her jealous fury.  There was a deadly silence in the air for a moment.

Then – "My lord cannot continue in this.  Does he not remember who _she_ is?"

In a calm tone that was so steady and so cold that it was utterly menacing, the reply of, "Remembrance is a much _overrated_ thing, milady…I would caution you not to disgrace yourself any further."  

And he turned back towards Elowyn, dismissively.

There was a shriek of some indescribable emotion: envy, ire, and heartbrokenness all in one, along with a thousand less tangible others, and then, suddenly, that other black form was hurling itself at her, full intent to tackle and maim in its bearing.  

Elowyn caught the arms of the other woman with her own, grabbing the bracelets just above the wrists, and whirled around, so that the ample silks of her gown formed an effective shield around her bared skin.  But this was not enough – even in the presence of her Dark Lord, the tigress was undeterred.  She launched herself at Elowyn again; the two went down, a full-scale royal catfight ensuing.  

_Snap!_  

The hands of the Sytherrian lady had found their way to the silver chain that was around Elowyn's neck – the necklace with the crystal pendant that was her only tangible link to her long-dead parents: infinitely precious and irreplaceable in her eyes – and yanked.  Instantly, the fragile silver clasp gave way; the two rivals broke apart; the necklace fell to the floor.  

Elowyn stared at her attacker: her face suddenly becoming devoid of all emotion, blank as an untouched canvas.  She felt the gloating regard of her assailant upon her, as she stood there, watching – completely full of triumphant, exulting spite.  

A dark shadow fell over her, but she paid it no heed.  

"_No_." was all she said: disbelief and heartbrokenness in her voice.

Wordless with grief, she knelt to the floor, picking up the necklace in both hands, cradling it in her palms; she stood, her gaze still never leaving the face of her attacker—

And then, suddenly, a grip of iron clamped down upon her wrist!  

She felt herself forced to turn around, whirled once more into the arms of her captor, whose eyes burned down into hers, seeing all and knowing all, or so it seemed…

"Come with me," the inescapable voice said: commanding.

But Elowyn had come back to reality, out of her depths of grief, and now she remembered her plan…and saw just how _awful_ a mistake she had just made.  She hadn't convinced him, by her power to move him into joining her in her dance, that his powers weren't as great as he had made them out to be; that she could control him as he had tried to control her.  Not even the jealousy of another, who also desired his devotion, could distract him – could make him see anything other than his own self-created truth.  No, indeed: now, she had only lost herself in a far greater, far darker labyrinth…for in those gray eyes, she saw a will that would not be denied.

_Oh Fates – help me…_

She stepped back, moving away from him.  

Then, another struggle began – once more, between captor, and the imprisoned; and when it at last became apparent that she wasn't going to do as he told her to without a time-wasting argument and struggle, the Dark Lord simply resorted to uninhibited force.  He stooped; an arm went around the back of her knees, whilst another snaked its way around her waist and shoulder – and Elowyn felt herself lifted simply off her feet!  

The throne room began to move away, to recede from her vision, and she realized that he was carrying her out of it.  

_NO!  No no NO!_  

Elowyn fought back, struggling within his arms, but those arms were undefeatable.  

She simply could not get away.

Now, the halls of _Dranthiris-Ankhar_ passed before her, black and red: glowing with a light that reminded her, once again, of blood.  A huge set of doors loomed before them, and swung open at the silent command of their master.

They entered an enormous room lined with pillars, a room that on the floor of which had been detailed a black and white star of marble and granite: fiery rubies set in all of its points, sending their glare up to the ceiling far above their heads.  Jaedin carried her a few steps further before loosening his grip, and then he dropped her onto the pillow-mounded silken couch that sat low on the floor below them.  

Elowyn fell into it, and immediately moved to scramble back, _away from him_, clearly remembering all too well the last time that she had allowed him to get that close to her—but he went, instead, to the huge doors, stopping at the thresh hold.  Seven black-robed, grim figures appeared then, out of the shadows, and the figure of the Dark Lord spoke to them: his voice terse and abrupt, with a more of a rasp to it than ever before, ragged, and uneven.  Elowyn knew that she should have run, if she could have – but there was no hope of her escaping now, for she somehow knew that he had brought her into the most impenetrable wing of his fortress, and for reasons that she could only imagine.

So she remained where she was.

"The words that are to be said within this room are to be kept enshrouded in darkness – _no one_ is to speak of them again unless _I_ command it.  It is on pain of death that you disobey."

And the seven figures melted back into the shadows again.

Jaedin turned towards her, standing still before the wide-open doorway.

*                       *                       *

In the hazy scarlet shadows, she could just barely see the outlines of his features: at last giving her a slight hint of what his face might look like.  Moving slowly – ever so slowly – he walked towards her, hands clasped behind his back, and she could feel his gaze on her own face, roving over her features, reading her, it seemed.

Suppressing a shudder, she mentally ordered herself to stay calm – although she shied away from him at the same time.

"Don't come any closer to me," she commanded, glaring at him.

Jaedin, however, continued to move towards her, although he paused when she had said those words, silent for a moment, and then made a placating gesture with his hands.  

"I won't hurt you, princess," he said, his voice soft and gentle, thoroughly convincing – but not to her. "I will allow you to suffer no harm at my hands, nor at those of anything else in my entire domain…unless you _force_ me to do so."

And, with that said, he took a seat – on the far end of the couch, not as close to her as he might have been, but still a world too close for her.  

Elowyn regarded him with loathing and revulsion in her eyes, and defiance.

"Simply hearing _your voice_ is enough to torment me," she replied, coldly.

There was a pause, and then she heard him move.  He was sitting closer now, and she heard him sigh: wistfully, in a way that reminded her of theatrics, however vaguely, and gloved fingers touched down on the back of her hand, running gently over her skin.

"We don't have to be this way…" he said, even more softly.

"It can be no _other_ way, Lord of the Darkness."

This reply was so icy, so utterly frigid that it would have stung to the heart anyone who heard it.  Jaedin, though, was indeed a lord of the darkness, and such words merely intrigued him.  He gazed at her even more intently; but Elowyn, seeing that he was about to speak, put out a hand and held him away from her, her face rigid and cold.

"No," she said. "No more of your mind games.  I _won't_ let you win over me_._"

But he reacted strangely to this – with a smirk etching into the corners of his mouth, curving his full lips, he leaned forward again, until their faces were mere inches apart.  Breathing his words so softly that she could only just hear them, he told her, "Ah yes, Princess…but it isn't so much _winning_ as it is _giving in_…" 

Gloved fingers moved to her hairline, running themselves through her hair: lightly, deftly, and, at the same time, somehow causing the fire of those five scratch lines on her cheek to cool, and disappear, taking away the pain.  She closed her eyes, fighting against him.  Seeing, however, that she was struggling to remain in control of her own conflicting emotions and thoughts, he pressed on: still soft and tender, but inescapably—

"And you accepted it, didn't you, Princess?  You were happy to have me there with you, you were happy to be in my arms…until you _remembered_."

She shook her head, wanting to escape, to get away from him, from the thoughts that he was calling up from her memory, from the sound of his voice.  But, still, it kept beating into her head, relentless and cruel, steadily growing louder, more insistent.

"And then you gave yourself to the light again," he whispered, knowing that he was beginning to hold sway over her, "and it washed you clean, leaving _me_ vile and base in your eyes: twisted and malformed, hideous as any hunchback.  But you longed for that reality again, even as you drove me from the deepest parts of your mind.  You knew what you truly wanted to be then…for the reality of it was at last unhidden, revealed by the shadows."

Her eyes opened again, their bright colour startling in the darkness, and she stared at him, fully and unhesitatingly.  Unafraid.

"Only they were fantasies that _you_ had created – phantoms of a wish that was truly _yours_."

Again, the knowingly wicked, maddening smirk.

"Perhaps…to an extent," he said; then, suddenly, his voice became more desperate, more serious, as he told her, "Listen to me now, Princess – our time may soon run out.  She is coming, and I do not yet know when, or what she plans to do with you once she has you before her.  All that I am certain of is that I will do as she commands me…no matter what her bidding may be…for what is a knight without his queen?"

His fingertips had moved down from her hair to curl underneath her chin, drawing her face up until it looked directly into his.  Elowyn unconsciously let her eyes slip halfway closed, and she gazed at him from beneath her lashes. 

"What must I do then, dark knight?" she asked.

The shadowy face looked down at her: its expression longing, intense in its concentration, and almost, she suddenly realized, through her disorientation, tender. Towards _her_.

"You must either go willingly into whatever Fate has in store for you…" he replied; his voice trailed off, and she was assailed by a terrible, cold fear, for then he said, "Or you may accept me.  Accept my realm and all that is within it, Princess – everything that I can give you: as well as _myself_.  Don't turn away from me again, Elowyn." 

His hand cupped itself now around her cheek, gently but firmly forcing her to look at him, into his shining eyes, before she could look elsewhere.  The gray eyes were now frightening in their intensity, and she could not avoid their gaze … 

"Don't try to run from me again – this may be your last chance."

"And what kind of a chance is it?" she whispered back, bitterly, running her restless fingers – those of her free hand, which he did not hold captive in his own – over the silver chain and pendant that she held in it.  

_Think of them – think of your freedom.  He will not give it to you; do not believe him._

She gestured at the wide-open doorway, which seemed to bear some sort of odd – ironic – portent to the situation.  It was open, clear for escape…but beyond it lay dangers that she could not fathom, shadows that she might not be able to escape.  

"What kind of an offer is it that you give to me now, Dark One?  The opportunity to choose the cold embrace of death, or to walk behind iron bars and allow their gates to clang shut after me – to forevermore hold my soul within a chill, dark prison: a cage?  Is _this_ what you urge me so glibly to accept?"

Jaedin shook his head: slowly, gravely, and spoke, his tone still almost tender, in spite of the scorn with which she had just addressed him.

"Elowyn, Elowyn…" he said. "I could not ask of you to surrender yourself into such torment as there might indeed be waiting for you at the hands of my lady…not when _I_ could prevent it from happening – when I hold _at least_ the power to give you a _choice_."

She writhed away from him again, from his seeking caresses and silky words, and finally managed to get up – off of the couch – and put some distance between them.  Seeing that he made no immediate effort to stop her, she bolted towards the door, taking the two steps that were required to bring her out of that room, into the hallway beyond it…and, likewise, into the midst of the Antari warriors who stood guard there.  She couldn't very well stop now – but she couldn't very well move, either.  She froze. The silver chain in her hand glinted as she stood there: facing him, and its gleam was strangely foreboding, in the hazy red light, but neither of them took any notice of it.  

Hearing her words, and seeing her movement, Jaedin's face became black and hard in expression.  Now he stood as well, and told her, in a firmer, darker tone, walking towards her purposefully—

"There are things worse than a _cage_, princess of the faeries.  I offer you the chance to live – and such a chance is not to be so lightly spurned.  To walk the paths of the _undead_…" 

At this, he trailed off: having hardly the will within his own soul to speak of what it would be like for her to tread such a path, to become a formless wraith, as he had once been.  

Then, whispering, "Oh, Princess – such a star, fallen from the night sky to the earth and embodied in touchable form…its light should not be so vilely, so _cruelly_ snuffed out.  Don't you see?  I would give you _anything_ – anything in the world, my life's blood itself – _anything_, do you hear me?  I would do whatever you wanted…I could even make you forget…"

"Forget…" she murmured.

"_Everything_," was his only reply.

Then, he came forwards, closing the last possible gap between them and folded his arms around her – and without apology or preamble kissed her.  She did not struggle this time – not for long, at least.  This time, she let him embrace her; she let his arms lock around her so that she was protected in their encircling depths.  She could feel that her heart was pounding, and she knew that his was too.  But was it with fear, or with realization…or something else?  A wave of emotion assailed her, and she submitted to it, holding onto him as if nothing else was there for her to hold onto: no, only _him_…  

Then, he drew back, just enough for her to raise one hand between them, and now he allowed her to trace her fingertips along his features.  Her lips parted, just ever so slightly, as she tried to summon up a picture of his shadowed face within her mind.  

A broad, high forehead, she felt, and that smooth shaven skull, utterly bereft of any hair whatsoever; a strong, squared jaw line, flawlessly chiseled cheekbones and chin; a straight, prominent nose, with wide, long-lashed eyes and sweeping brows, just above it…and last – finally – the lips that grazed against her fingers, one by one, as she ceased their movement, allowing them to rest there.  She felt him kissing each one.  She looked up at him, quickly.

"Who _are_ you?" she murmured to him.

He didn't answer.  

Instead, he leaned down and kissed her, again.  Elowyn slowly, carefully, moved in his arms: her hand, as if of its own accord, rose to his neck, and then slowly passed over his head.  Softly, Jaedin murmured to her, saying something – calling her something, the sounds of the syllable velvety and familiar – speaking in some tongue that she did not know, whispering endearments to her, as her hands continued to assist her in her embracing of him…

_But in those very hands, she held the crystal pendant, and the silver chain that he had now completely forgotten…_

Suddenly, at all once, an explosion of revulsion and twisted pain – Jaedin's entire frame stiffened against her, as he drew back, his features contorted in agony, as if he had just been burned with a white-hot flame, making what sounded like a hiss of extreme shock and torment.  Then the lights in the room went out, plunging her into blackness, and he went completely limp and motionless in her arms, collapsing to the floor.  

Elowyn stood back, and stared, emotionlessly.

All was silent and completely pitch black around her.

Instantly, her conscience returned to her, to reprimand her roundly for what she had done: _for the sake of escaping, she had just shared an embrace with the very person, the creature, who would kill her, and all those she loved, within a heartbeat, if he did not get his way! _ This was what she had been forced into.  

The form of her dark companion was still lifeless; when she put her hand to his chest, she felt his heartbeat, faint beneath the hard black armor that he wore.  It mattered little now, though, that he still lived or breathed.  She didn't know why he had reacted so suddenly and so strangely to her touch, but all at once, she knew that she _couldn't_, and _didn't_, care.

Her promise from the captain of the Antari – Rákkhed – had proven true.  The lights had gone out, all over _Dranthiris-Ankhar_, and now she must move quickly to make her escape.  At long last, she would be free.

_Free from_ you_, Lord of the Darkness._

And she ran from the room, with never a glance behind herself.

*                       *                       *

Moments later, however, the dark figure that had fallen prone to the cold marble floor stirred and slowly raised his head.  He was alone; she had left him, a maddening, pounding pain was in his head – he rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily.

_His quarry was fleeing him…but the chase was only just about to begin._

*                       *                       *

A/N: Ohhhh dear, now she's really made him mad. And what is with him anyways – what made him fall over right then and there? Can Elowyn evade him long enough for the Antari's promise to be fulfilled? _Does she really even want to leave…?_ All this and more to be explained in the next chapter – read on! The adventure continues!

PS – thanks to all who have reviewed so far. You all make my day!

**Rosethorn**: You've returned! Oh, gads-be-gracious, I luv you, dahling! A question though…who is Ardeth-Bay? I was completely blanking out on that… And yes, I shall get the index to you. I hope it will prove most helpful. (And yes, Kates _does_ love balls – I guess that _that_ can't be so very obvious to anyone, can it… *winks*)

**DarkSlytherinAngel**: Well, if you'd like to see my story here published, I'd like to see yours in print too. It really is quite wunnerful…and Christina and Elowyn seem as if they might get along well, I think… Yes, the Antari are modeled after the Madgi from _The Mummy_, but until I get this made into a movie, perhaps we can all just keep that a secret among us here on fanfiction.net… ^_~

**Grayfalcon**: Mmm…love Mercedes Lackey. That's all I can say…does it answer your question in any way? ^_^ *grins* Do I use 'digress' a lot…? I have to admit I do indeed like that word…but if I use it a lot, it's bound to get annoying, even to me. I shall have to keep my eyes peeled for any further usage…

**Raal the Sword Master**: YES! You've returned! I was getting to miss your reviews…and having the ability to get on-line only once a week is horrid…and so is FFN for that stupid overload problem that it seems to have – it's kept me from updating a couple of times. Oh well. Glad you're back, and hope this story is as enjoyable to you (and everyone else) as its predecessors. And no, we didn't hear much about Elowyn in _Wings of the Heart_…_now_, though… *smiles deviously*

**Riene**: Thank you for your great long reviews! You are good at that, did you know… Anyways. Glad you liked the dream scene – I thought you would. But I think I have a little escapade coming up in the next few chapters that you will enjoy _even more_…

Furthermore, I am currently trying to prod Jaedin into saying that he's sorry for creeping you all out…he's very reluctant, but I'm working on him. Oh, and does anyone want to try and guess who I've "cast" as him? You might be surprised, and you might not, when it's finally revealed. The description of his current appearance more than hints at it…

(But I'm still keeping the whole thing a secret, but soon you'll know…soon, my friends, _very_ soon…)

@{------------------------

A/N: Ohhhh dear, now she's really made him mad. And what is with him anyways – what made him fall over right then and there? Can Elowyn evade him long enough for the Antari's promise to be fulfilled? _Does she really even want to leave…?_ All this and more to be explained in the next chapter – read on! The adventure continues!

PS – thanks to all who have reviewed so far. You all make my day!

**Rosethorn**: You've returned! Oh, gads-be-gracious, I luv you, dahling! A question though…who is Ardeth-Bay? I was completely blanking out on that… And yes, I shall get the index to you. I hope it will prove most helpful. (And yes, Kates _does_ love balls – I guess that _that_ can't be so very obvious to anyone, can it… *winks*)

**DarkSlytherinAngel**: Well, if you'd like to see my story here published, I'd like to see yours in print too. It really is quite wunnerful…and Christina and Elowyn seem as if they might get along well, I think… Yes, the Antari are modeled after the Madgi from _The Mummy_, but until I get this made into a movie, perhaps we can all just keep that a secret among us here on fanfiction.net… ^_~

**Grayfalcon**: Mmm…love Mercedes Lackey. That's all I can say…does it answer your question in any way? ^_^ *grins* Do I use 'digress' a lot…? I have to admit I do indeed like that word…but if I use it a lot, it's bound to get annoying, even to me. I shall have to keep my eyes peeled for any further usage…

**Raal the Sword Master**: YES! You've returned! I was getting to miss your reviews…and having the ability to get on-line only once a week is horrid…and so is FFN for that stupid overload problem that it seems to have – it's kept me from updating a couple of times. Oh well. Glad you're back, and hope this story is as enjoyable to you (and everyone else) as its predecessors. And no, we didn't hear much about Elowyn in _Wings of the Heart_…_now_, though… *smiles deviously*

**Riene**: Thank you for your great long reviews! You are good at that, did you know… Anyways. Glad you liked the dream scene – I thought you would. But I think I have a little escapade coming up in the next few chapters that you will enjoy _even more_…

Furthermore, I am currently trying to prod Jaedin into saying that he's sorry for creeping you all out…he's very reluctant, but I'm working on him. Oh, and does anyone want to try and guess who I've "cast" as him? You might be surprised, and you might not, when it's finally revealed. The description of his current appearance more than hints at it…

(But I'm still keeping the whole thing a secret, but soon you'll know…soon, my friends, _very_ soon…)


	15. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen – 

A Plan Gone Horribly Awry

The halls of Dranthiris-Ankhar seemed even blacker than usual, devoid of the fiery glow that the torches lit there normally provided, or the scorching light of the desert sun from outside.  But, in this, they also seemed safer: less menacing and omnipresent, and fortuitously empty for the small young figure who fled down the halls, glancing behind herself every once in a while.

Elowyn knew that what time she had now would not amount to much – somehow, she could already sense, deep in her senses, that the Dark Lord was not far behind her.  She could feel the distant waves of his consuming, terrible anger upon her mind.  

Of course he _would_ be angry: she was running away from him again, but in this darkness, they would be hard-pressed indeed to find one another, even if they tried.

As she ran, she resisted the urge to draw the back of her hand across her mouth, to clear away the sickening, possessive sweetness of the memory that she had of his lips upon hers.  It had been all too addicting, too controlling: that moment, and she knew now that it would take her a very long time to entirely clear it from her mind.

Even then, though – she doubted that she ever would.

Did she really _want_ to…?

_Run, Elowyn: run!_

Sandaled feet barely making any noise as she swept along the dark hallways of the Sytherrian royal palace, moving quickly and desperately.  Elowyn had no idea where she was going.  The only thought in her mind was that, perhaps, if she ran fast and far enough, there might be a chance of her finding a way out of the incredible labyrinth that surrounded her.  It was her only hope; once she had made it out of the palace, the Antari would aid her in her escape—

But only _after_ she had found her way out of the darkness.

The halls, stairways, and rooms that the pale, coldly fair young princess passed through seemed to blur before her; no one of them looked even remotely the same, and yet she felt as if she were somehow going in circles.  Then, gradually, she became aware of the fact that she was going down – descending even deeper into the blackness, racing her way into the very bowels of the fortress.  Down an iron stairway she clattered, almost losing one of her bejeweled sandals in the process, terrified at what might happen if she fell.  

He was behind her…

Elowyn came out onto a walkway that loomed above a vast chasm-like space, riddled with the light of what seemed to be fires of the deep underground.  Thousands more steps led down into this place, and everywhere she looked, she saw doorways that led further into the shadows.  

But one stood out among the others, somehow – it was just a little ways off to her left, and to this she went.  Around the corner, beneath the doorway her shimmering figure sped, eventually coming into a narrow corridor, through which blasts of cool, moisture-ridden air flowed.

Obviously, this was a way to the outside, as the place that she had just come from had air that was hot and close, kept in that one space for who knew how long – perhaps since the building of _Dranthiris-Ankhar_.  She didn't know.  

A pale, bluish light came up, in a rectangular form, ahead of her: another doorway.  Elowyn ran towards it, not even bothering to look behind herself now.

The place beyond the doorway that she passed through was a long, wide hall of sorts, with huge pillars lining it in layers on both sides.  Still, the gusts of fresh air came towards her – this had to be a way out.  She cast about for another door; surely—

Then, from behind her, she felt the air behind to vibrate: to tingle, as if a bolt of lightning was about to strike it.  A heavy, inescapable presence stretched its invisible hand towards her, groping in the darkness, searching for her: terrible and fell.

She wanted to scream.

No: she mustn't give in to the terror now.  No matter what wrath the Dark Lord had for her – no matter what he might try to do – no matter what minions and awful creatures, his servants, that he might send after her, she had to run.  She _had_ to get out!

Summoning her every strength and momentarily closing her eyes, holding her breath, and praying to the Three that They would guide and protect her, Elowyn paused – only a moment, and no more.  Upon opening her eyes again, she glanced about herself.  It would be a terrible gamble that she was about to make…but there was no other way.

And then she ran.

Her figure dashed out of the shadows, instantly revealed by the cold light above her – and then she disappeared again.  She was weaving in and out of the darkness: alternately running, then pausing, and then running again.  It was as if she had suddenly become a fleeting shadow.

He was getting closer.

_Princess, you've crossed a line now…you should be very,_ very_ afraid._

She ignored the voice in her head.  She was going to get out.

Finally, she found the door, and, without pause, ran through it.  All at once, she found herself in a much smaller, narrower room, with high walls that stretched up to a ceiling that was far above her head.  Stopping abruptly, she craned her head way back, in order to stare suddenly at those walls…for they were lined, with hardly any space to show through, with a host of strange and terrible weapons: all of which gleamed bright and razor-sharp in the cold light.

Elowyn stared at them.

_What place is this?_

And then her eyes focused on the room's most dominating inhabitant…

_There, in the very center of the floor, stood a huge suit of armor that loomed over her: full and undeniable menace and cruelty in its air.  'Who are you, that you dare to enter this place – my resting place?' it seemed to ask of her.  And Elowyn could only stand where she was and stare at it._

Somehow, she felt as if she had seen this suit of armor before – where?  Surely, she had never encountered its wearer; for none of the villains that she had ever battled before had ever come close to being as great and terrible as the wearer of this armor must have been…

It was the Dark Lord's armor.

She had seen it before: in the pictures of the old history books and ancient legends that were kept in the libraries and other places in Avalennon; she had seen the scenes that had been depicted by the most skilled and knowledgeable artists and historians of any times.  Awestruck, she approached the towering iron figure, staring up at it.  The blank spaces where the eyes were meant to look through glared down at her: a ring of blade-like spikes crowning the skull above them, and the long, curving talons that ornamented and made lethal the gauntlets at the motionless arms gleamed in the pale light at her, seeming to ask: do you really want to cross the one who once bore us?  Do you know what deadly peril you have now stumbled into?

Then, her eyes slowly moved, down from those gauntlets, to the belt and sword-scabbard that hung at the suit's waist.

And her eyes widened—

_The sword was gone from the scabbard._

She heard a sword being drawn, ringing high-pitched and fell.

_Oh, Fates – no.  What have I done?_

For now she saw a dark figure standing across from her – on the other side of the suit of armor – and it was a tall, powerful figure, from whom waves of dire hatred and rage seemed to flow, a figure whose gray eyes glared into her own.  He had a sword leveled at her.

Elowyn took a step away.

"So, at long last, you've had your fun," the voice cut through the air to her: fraught with deadly hate and menace. "But now know this, Princess – _I can never let you leave this place_…"

The stationary tip of the sword suddenly flashed in the light – slashing through the air as he lunged towards her.  

Elowyn fell back, only just avoiding the blade – without a moment's time to think any further, she rammed herself against the suit of armor, pushing it with all her might.  Instantly, it gave a horrendous groan and gave way, crashing to the floor.  Elowyn didn't wait to see if she had done any damage to her attacker; all she did was turn and run.  

A ragged shriek of unearthly, boundless rage followed her out the door.  

Within an instant, she was back in the room of pillars, and running into the shadows.  And within an instant, he was behind her again.  Elowyn slammed herself to a halt behind one of the huge stone formations, becoming completely silent – although she felt that her heart was beating so loudly within her chest that he could surely hear it was well as she.  

Carefully, she turned her eyes to one side, glancing out of the corner of her vision, looking for an escape—

Fortune smiled upon her, clear as day.

For there, leaning up against the wall with a hundred others of its kind, was a Sytherrian wyvern-rider: a razor-edged, light vehicle of iron, which would hover above the ground and zoom along at great speeds when its captain indicated that this was his desire.  Elowyn knew this instantly with the aid of her faery powers, which had – she now sensed – suddenly begun to return.  

That was the Dark Lord's great power: he froze the thoughts, instincts, knowledge, and abilities, every act of the free will, of his opponents.  _That_ was why she had been so unable to evade him…and now, as she was making her escape, running further and further beyond the reach of his powers, would this no longer affect her?  She didn't have time to consider on it further.  She had time only for _escape_.

_Father, Mother – brothers, sisters, friends and comrades one and all – the wide world, as a whole…it is_ over_, at long last.  _

_I'm coming home._

One wyvern-rider left its comrades on the wall of the weaponry chamber.

*                       *                       *

Her escape had indeed weakened his hold on her – and Jaedin well knew it.  This, and the stunning effect of the nasty trick that she had employed on him, had impeded his abilities greatly, almost leaving him without any sort of power, and now, as he followed relentlessly behind her, he swore that no such thing of this caliber would ever again occur.

He stood for a moment in the open floor of the weaponry, casting about himself for any trace of her in the shadows.  Then, finding this impossible, he cursed eloquently in his own tongue and whirled about, narrowing his gray eyes with an anger that would have struck down any soul that had seen it in an instant.  _Elowyn – Princess, I _will_ find you…_

Silence; he took a step forward—

_Zoom!_

The Dark Lord of Sytherria had to react with lightning reflexes in order to avoid having his head taken off by the Sytherrian wyvern-rider that suddenly tore out of the shadows beneath the pillars and went over him, shock waves stirring the air in its wake.  Jaedin allowed an inarticulate strangled noise of fury to escape his throat, nearly a scream, and made a violent gesture with both hands, instantly teleporting himself back to his throne room in the palace.  There, before the black smoke of enchantment had even cleared around him, his irate voice screamed at the ranks of his servants who had gathered there—

"_FIND HER – NOW!_"

Then, Jaedin himself tore down to the lava-riddled grounds of _Dranthiris-Ankhar_, storming with unconcealed fury to the platforms where the Sytherrian glider ships were anchored.  Terrifying all who stood before him, he ordered that one be launched.  

He intended to take down the escaping prisoner himself, and he knew just where he would have to go in order to do that.

Somehow, after she had managed to knock him unconscious, the lights had gone out all over the palace.  The torches and other lights in his fortress were all kept going after nightfall by a central ensorcelled talisman that was kept in a chamber deep within the place: the spell on which could only be broken by moving it from its original position.  Jaedin was too infuriated to fully think on how this might have come to pass – all that was in his mind at the moment was the knowledge that his faery prisoner had made her escape with the aid of the darkness, and that now, she would be heading straightway to the magic wall that was not three miles outside of _Dranthiris-Ankhar_.  

If she were to reach that wall, which she could sense the presence of with her inherent magical abilities, she would pass through it – were she not stopped – and reenter the White Realm.

And then she would be out of his reach.

Jaedin gritted his teeth: a truly feral snarl twisting his lips, and gave a gesture that commanded the glider ship to be launched.  He went to the fore deck and stood at the bow: shining gray eyes piercing into the early morning haze like daggers, the harsh winds that passed by the speeding vessel ripping about his shaven skull and clothing, causing the long black cloak he wore to billow, bat-like and ominous.

She wouldn't escape him – he wouldn't let her.  There was no way that she could escape to the White Realm, where he had not dared to enter in over four hundred thousand years, since that last great battle between the forces of evil and good.  Would he follow her there now, if she somehow evaded him?  _No,_ he told himself, _no – she will not escape me.  Her will cannot surmount mine; it is impossible._

It was impossible – everything was.

_Where is she?_

His tracing spell went out into the night, grasped at and then locked on to her – she was moving fast, and he could barely keep his senses focused on her, so weakened were his powers becoming in regard to her.  She was slipping out of his reach!  

_No,_ Jaedin thought again, jaw clenching in tandem with his gloved fist.  _She'll not make it out of this place.  She will _not_ leave the boundaries of Dranthiris-Ankhar.  She cannot._

The glider ship bore down on Elowyn, fast gaining on her; and then, Jaedin – knowing that she would, in all likeliness, play a hidden trump card in their game of hunter-and-hunted – gave the order to the crew of the ship that it should be turned around, in a wide arc.  He would meet her head-on, and the one who blenched…

Well.

It would _not_ be _him_.

Elowyn's sea green eyes narrowed as she saw the glider ship's movements; she knew what her dark captor was about, and she knew what he would to do her if he were to capture her.  _Never again, Jaedin of Sytherria,_ she told him within her mind: her gaze focusing on the tall, proud figure who stood at the bow of the vessel that was zooming towards her on the blood-tinted morning air.

_Never again._

Jaedin's eyes narrowed as well, looking straight into hers, and his mind touched on hers.

_We shall see, Princess._

Elowyn sent him a mysterious, somehow knowing little smirk then.

_Ah, but we _won't_ – and do not be so sure of yourself from now on._

There was a beat of wings on the air then; Jaedin whirled around, stiffening in fury and shock, only to see – too late for reaction, too late for prevention – the gleaming, sleek figure of a winged stallion: shining white in the rising sun's glow, come forth from the shadows.  The Dark Lord of Sytherria uttered a wordless scream of rage—

But it was too late.

The fleeing faery princess leapt from the wyvern-rider onto the back of the Pegasus, with perfect grace and ease, and, once she was fully in the saddle, the creature veered off to the side and vanished into the hazy dawn.  

Dranthiris-Ankhar nearly exploded with the force of his fury as the Dark Lord teleported, once more, back to his throne room.  The Antari who awaited him there received one command, and one alone.

"_Bring her back!_"

*                       *                       *

But the Antari had made a promise, and devoted to their lord as they were, and always would be, they would also _never_ break a promise.  

Rákkhed Dahk-Marr's forces raced out into the dawn, riding hard: urging their fierce, noble steeds on; a hundred Skullex accompanied them.  They chased the faery princess and her winged mount out into the desert, heading towards an oasis of truly deadly beauty, where the magic wall to the White Realm hung.  The Pegasus, however, outdistanced them all, and then, furtively, when they had almost reached the invisible enchanted wall, Rákkhed held up a hand: giving the secret signal to his men that they should rein back.

The Antari immediately obeyed, and pulled their mounts up short; meanwhile, however, the Skullex hurtled on ahead of them, directly towards the magic wall—

*                       *                       *

Elowyn looked once more over her shoulder – the magic wall to the White Realm was less than two hundred yards away, and closing…

The dun-coloured form of the Pegasus stallion reared up, prancing madly, as it passed through the invisible barrier, which seemed to burst like a soap bubble and fall into a countless shards, with the sound of an enormous, earth-shaking groan, as soon as the faery princess had passed within it.  The Skullex followed through—

_And were immediately assailed by a thick rain of faery and Elven arrows!_

Chaos broke out: the Skullex's mounts went mad and surged in a terrifying pandemonium around her; Elowyn clung to Orpheus, who reared up once more, his neigh a fierce scream, the whites of his eyes showing, sea-coloured mane flashing in the newborn sun's light.  

Then, all at once, there were figures arrayed in shining armor: mounted, with weapons drawn, pouring out of the trees all around her, breaking into the panic-stricken ranks of the Skullex and mowing them down like hay.  Suddenly – hoof beats behind her; Elowyn turned, mind finally breaking under terror and overwrought strengths, and saw the figure in gleaming silver that was behind her.  Hands reached for her, and she shied away, crying out in fear – "_No_!"

But these were gentle, protecting hands, and she felt herself gathered into someone's lap, pulled out of Orpheus's saddle.  A woman's voice that she recognized rang out from beneath the helmet that the figure wore, carrying over even all the chaos that was about them, "We have the princess – fall back!  _Fall back_!"

Elowyn saw the shining figures brandish swords one last time at their foes, heard the Skullex's awful cries as they fell; and then it was too much: she could take no more.

Into the blissful darkness she went, willing and broken.

And, their enemies completely vanquished, the faery and Elven forces returned to the fair citadel of Avalennon, bearing with them their returned princess, who rested lifeless and unconscious in the arms of her sister: Queen Elladine of Lærelin.  There, she was received by her incredulously relieved parents, the Lord Orandor and Lady Vahlada, and the realm rang out with overwhelming joy.

The nightmare, at last, had ended.

_But, for at least one soul in that world, another nightmare had only just begun…_

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Hmm.  Wonder who _that_ could be?   Poor Jaedin.  Ah well, I suppose you could say he deserved it.  Mmm.  Please r&r!  And now, I will herein end my commentary, leaving you with a promise to update again very soon – for next we will see the beginning of Part III of _True Hate and True Love_…

Cast List:

And now, introducing the one and only, the one and best, the indomitable and undefeatable (all right, well, _almost_) Numero Uno villain in Evyrworld—

Jaedin, Dark Lord of Sytherria:  Tom Hardy

(See _Star Trek: Nemesis_.  It'll all become clear to you then…)


	16. Authoress's Note, Part III

– Part III –

Faery, Elf, Vampyre, and Mortal Alike

Ah.  So here, we are – still in the midst of the forest but making some admirable headway on our journey.

Oh, what's this?  You are tired, my friend?  Have your feet grown weary?  Well – sit down and rest yourself for a while.  I think that we may now safely pause.

Or can we…?

_'Meanwhile, the wolf sped through the woods all the way to the grandmother's cottage and knocked on the door.'_

_(Talented wolf – knocking on doors.  However did he learn to do that, I wonder?)_

_' "Who's there?" cried the grandmother in her weak voice._

_"It is I, Little Red Riding Hood!" cried the wolf.'_

_(And evidently a remarkable voice-impersonator as well!  Oh!  Don't let him in, Granny!)_

_'So the grandmother opened the door—'_

_(Wait a moment – this from the same woman who was so terribly ill?  It's a conspiracy gone awry, I tell you – the wolf in league with the crafty old octogenarian.  What?  Don't look at me like that!  Haven't you ever read 'Hansel and Gretel'?)_

_'And the wolf swallowed her in a single gulp.  Then he put on her nightgown and her lace cap…_

_…and settled down to wait for Little Red Riding Hood.'_

So, the wolf has reached home territory – the place where the near and dear are to be found.  Myth and legend, experience as well, can now tell us of what is to come: shock, death, and tragedy.

Or will it always end that way?

But hold a moment, friend – look!  Did you see that dark, shadowy shape flitting through the trees just over there?  Where's Red?

Come quickly now – we've got to run!  Red, _come back_!

_Where are you?_


	17. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen – 

To Make a Vow, To Spin a Dream

It has failed, were the words whispered at the Ebony Court; he has failed her, and now she has summoned him, and who knows what can possibly happen now?  He has failed her, and the plan has gone to ashes, scattered to the wind.  _He has failed…_

When the Ebony Queen gave the summons to her Dark Knight, Jaedin of Sytherria, rumor of what would then come to pass went out through the entire land.  Whispers of her great anger, of her intended lenience, of the punishment that waited for the dreaded lord of the arid land in the west, all traveled in ripples through the court, for none dared to speak them aloud, and they must, instead, wait to see what the Queen herself would say to he who served her.

Red was the dawn on the day that the black dragon appeared in the skies over the Black City; and red would that day end, in blood-tinted flame of the skies, in sunset…

*                       *                       *

_'You had given me your vow, Jaedin of Sytherria; you swore to me that you would take her into your domain as your captive, and there keep her…and now she is beyond us.  Tell me: how has this come to pass?  How is it that her powers won over yours?'_

Sometimes, it was indeed more of a matter of winning more than it was a matter of giving in – and Jaedin swore now a new oath to himself, that he would not give in to _this_.  Summoned before the throne of his Lady, he was forced to give an account for himself, of the story of what things had come to pass within the walls of his _Dranthiris-Ankhar_.  

However, no one but the Dark Lord himself knew, there were as many black shadows and lies in his story, as there was stark, uninhibited truth.  Knowing his Lady for who and what she was, he shrewdly held back most of the darkest details for his own consciousness; indeed, who truly wanted to be a sordid voyeur… 

He gave the report, but stated, however – contemptuously – that had the Queen come to join him at his palace with all due haste, the captive's escape might have been prevented.  When questioned on just how he, the Dark Lord of old, had allowed a simple child to evade him, he gave the arrogant reply – perhaps he had meant to do so, having tired of remaining in his realm, bored with the tedium of watching over her.  It was like being a nursemaid, he retorted.

But the Queen was not so easily put down.  

If he could not be trusted to handle a single seventeen-year-old girl properly, then perhaps he ought to rethink his position…

Fuming with rage, Jaedin would have instantly left the court, that very afternoon – the Queen called him back, with a command that he should appear before her, privately, in her chambers.  The entire court was already laughing at him, and his humiliation could be no greater.  He mastered it, nevertheless, hiding his smoldering fury behind the silver-gray veneer of his dark, unreadable eyes, and followed his Lady into her inner rooms.

There, Zaschaea – the Ebony Queen, mistress of the Black City, and rising power in the Dark Realm – indicated that the doors should be closed behind them.  Moving across the room, her back to him, her long, silken train sweeping with a snake-like hissing over the blue-black stone floor, she was silent: deep in thought.  

Jaedin stood before the doors, watching her, and waiting.

Finally, "You do not give fault to yourself for the destruction of our plan then, _Ríth-Anstarinaor_, my Dark Knight?"

He narrowed his gray eyes.

_What do you want?_ he mentally shouted at her.   _What do you want me to do?  Tell me!_

Zaschaea now turned around: her flame-lit eyes coming to focus on him, and her black-red lips moved, forming a faint smirk, in her alabaster face.  She looked on the tall, slender but well-muscled figure of her most favored and most powerful servant with the air of an indulgent, slightly amused parent.  At the moment, actually, it seemed to be just such a scene: the look on Jaedin's face, and his entire demeanor, was one of an arrogant, disdainful adolescent, as he stood facing her, accused of an incredible transgression of command.  Not for the first time, did he now wonder if his dark queen could somehow hear his thoughts… 

"You found her once," she told him: speaking with slow, exulting power in her tone. "You were able to track and spirit away the princess of the faeries – now, Jaedin, my Dark Knight, I will give you a new task, and it is one that I think you will not much like…"

His gray eyes stared blankly out at her, rimmed with inner dangerousness.

"You will travel to the realm of the accursed faeries, and there, you will once more seek out our fair princess…"

_And this time, you will not let her escape. _

*                       *                       *

Meanwhile, far across both land and sea, in the white-walled palace of Avalennon, there was anything but its usual peace in the air.  The shining figures of its faery residents moved through the hours of the day: tense, waiting silence abiding in every one of them.

Their princess had been returned to them, after a great ordeal, but there was not a one of them who did not fully know the truth—

This had only been the _beginning_ of a new peril…

In the High Council, every seat was filled, and no one representative or delegate was absent; they had all traveled, from far and near, at the command of the Lord and Lady of the White Realm.  Orandor and Vahlada now sought to set about coming up with a means to protect their beloved child, Elowyn, from further attacks of the darkness, for she was, indeed, too cherished a spirit and entity in their world to risk the loss of.  

Without her, there was no hope that their nemesis would ever be defeated.  Without her, they would be lost, and so would their world.

Now, Orandor looked out over the ranks of the fair people who had gathered in the council that day.  His sharp, piercing gray eyes were filled with the grief and tiredness of many hours spent in concern and dread fear at the thought of losing his precious child, and yet he remained tall and proud before his people: a symbol of wisdom and bravery.  Beside him, Vahlada was seated: bright and beautiful as the dawn in her throne of twining gold and pearls, but in her cornflower blue eyes there was an air of discontent – she would have very much liked to be with her daughter, rather than here, mired in hours of council debates.

He knew her thought, and felt it in his own heart – he wished the same.

But the Council _had_ to be held.

Clearing his mind then of all else, he rose to his feet and gestured that the Council be called to order.  This having been done, the faery and Elven delegates seated themselves, and Orandor spoke to them, his voice ringing clear and compelling in the silence of the room.

"Long have we warred with the forces of evil, the armies and various captains, of the Dark Realm, but never before has such a threat been faced, as is now in our midst.  I summoned you here today, people of the Light, to speak of this – the prophecy of World's End."

Then, he began to recite the lines that the ancient oracle had spoken.

_One raven's feather,_

_Black as the night;_

_A single white opal, _

_Shedding beams of its light;_

_A tongue of red flame,_

_Burning brightly and true;_

_A teardrop of crystal,_

_Purest in hue._

_All bound together in one great crest, _

_But two must join above all the rest._

_Raven and white are destined to blend;_

_With light, good shall prosper,_

_And evil will end._

A ripple of whispers went through the chamber, which Orandor stilled with a slight gesture of one hand.  Looking out at them with grave knowledge in his face, he spoke again.

"That is some of the prophecy, but not all – and it speaks of the four entities who will join together in trial and triumph, before the end of the world…or _part_ of it.  These four are people, but we know of only _one_ who is among them."

He paused, and then said the words that all the White Realm knew. 

"This one is Elowyn: blood-daughter of Diarnan and Lhanallis, who were slain in dread battle with the forces of the Dark Realm; now daughter by adoption of Orandor and Vahlada.  The Ebony Queen, who makes her dwelling beyond the fiery mountains of Neldyr, killed Diarnan and Lhanallis: seeking to end the life of their _child_."

Another pause; Vahlada stood and continued, her voice bell-like and tinged with grief.  

"Elowyn was fated," said the Lady of the White Realm, "by the prophecy of an oracle many thousands of years before her birth, to be the herald of the end of all evil; _this_ is why the Queen ended the lives of her birth-mother and birth-father, and this is why she even now seeks her out.  The Dark Lord of Sytherria was sent, having returned to his true form after millenniums of exile in the form of a wraith, to capture her, and this he did – he took our princess, _my daughter_, away from us, intending to hand her over to his Queen."

"Then what are we to do _now_?" was the question raised.

Orandor and Vahlada exchanged glances.  They had long known, in their hearts, that this day would come.  _The darkness could not be held back forever…_

"She has returned to us, through the goodness of unknown Fate," Orandor replied, evenly; his hand, which clasped with Vahlada's, trembled almost imperceptibly, however. "But now we must endeavor to protect her at all costs – she cannot remain in this place, for the Dark Lord now knows where she is.  We _must_ keep her hidden from him…"

And so, it was decided in the High Council of the White Realm that day, that Princess Elowyn would be taken from Avalennon to the court of the Elves, in the lands across the Sea: there, the noble Prince Skye and Princess Odessa-Gadriel ruled, and there, Elowyn would be hidden amongst the fair forms of her Elven kin.

This was done with all due haste and secrecy.  Elowyn was removed from the castle of her parents and taken to a ship in a hidden, faery-controlled harbor.  Tears streaming down her pale, cold face, her hair whisking about her like shining streamers of gold, the young princess stood, in the darkness: her features and figure shrouded and completely hidden by a cloak and hood, at the bow of the ship.  

And here, she watched the beloved, shimmering shores of the lands that she knew so well, the White Realm itself, disappear from sight, hidden from her in the swirling ocean mists…

*                       *                       *

Night had fallen: quiet and serenity lay in a haze over Iordania, the ivory palace of Prince Skye and Princess Odessa-Gadriel.  

The Elves were a noble, proud race, capable of great bravery and power in war, and boundless wisdom and generosity in peace; but, for all the stories of their stoic outtake on all of life, they were also quite high-spirited and warm-hearted beings.  Their banquets, picnics, cotillions, and other amusements lasted for a thousand years and a day, and anyone who happened to attend them found afterwards that they had never had more fun.  

And the prince and princess greatly loved their young ward, Elowyn.  

The two, and every inhabitant of their realm, did all that they could to make her happy and content while she was there.  Skye and Odessa-Gadriel had made the decision, between the two of them, that she would not be allowed to think that she had been exiled from her home, and that they would do their best to ensure that her stay was one of both amusement and pleasure.

Elowyn was, of course, really quite happy to be staying with them.  

Although she missed her parents and Avalennon greatly, the sea-trip to Elvendome had been exciting and picturesque, and she loved the prince, princess, and their family of five absolutely adorable children to no end.  Also, her cousin, Orlando, and his wife, Arielle, came to stay at the palace with them during that time, bringing with them their own four precocious children, including the newest: a month-old baby girl.  

It was an utter thrill for her to spend time with the people that she held so dear to her heart, and she was made even happier by the news that one day, very soon, her uncle Brendan would be arriving, with Sala and Robbie 'for company'.

But this night, as she lay in her bed, wakeful even as the moon climbed slowly, steadily, towards the zenith of the sky…

_Memories flashed through her head: pictures of a life that couldn't, it seemed, have been hers – fleeting recollections of some great secret, a forbidden connection between two very different souls, and, more stark and ominous than anything else, the figure of a tall, dark person, who held out a hand to her; she wanted to reach him.  The sensation of soft lips brushing, like velvet, against hers: an elegant voice full of dry wit and intelligence saying her name, calling her endearments in some tongue that she did not know, hands that sought hers, wound about her and drew her into an embrace which she could not and would not escape…_

_Eyes of gray: silver, tinged with violet, stormy as the clouds that gathered on the horizon, just above the churning sea…_

_A voice, in her head: _'_You enjoyed it, didn't you, Princess?  You enjoyed it…until you remembered…and yet, still, even now, you long for the darkness again…you knew your truest desires in that moment, that moment that we shared: together touching the depths of true passion.  Don't you remember, Princess?  You desired me as I desired you, in that moment – our souls merged as one: knowing only each other, for those few precious seconds…_

_Princess…_

_I would give you anything – anything in the world, my life's blood itself – anything, do you hear me?  I would do whatever you wanted…I could even make you forget…'_

_'Forget?' her mind questioned, seeking the owner of that voice, turning about every which way in order to look for him._

_'Everything…'_

_'No.'_

_'Don't run from me, Princess; don't turn away.  We are bound together now – forever.  You remember – that moment didn't mean nothing, and you know it.  It meant much more than you can imagine; we are tied together now by a bond that will not be broken: not by time, not by struggle, not by hatred, the light nor the darkness.  We are one.  You are mine now…you are in me, as I am in you…'_

_'NO!'_

"NO!" 

Elowyn shot up in bed, eyes wide and frame stiff as winter-ice; she was half-awake and half-asleep, wandering in a delirium, a nightmare brought on by memories so horrible and dark that she could not escape them, disturbing and familiar, confusing and awful, mind-breaking.  The door to her room was suddenly pushed wide open and several figures came through it, rushing over to her, as her shrieks had split the night air.  

She felt hands on her shoulders, heard voices speaking to her – voices she knew – "Elowyn, Elowyn, it's all right, be still, it's all right," they said, "It was just a dream, be still, be still, be still; have no fear, it was just a dream…"

Just a dream.

But she shook her head, gently putting those gentle, comforting hands away from her, and pulled back from the people whom she knew and loved so well.  "No," she whispered: broken and haunted. "It wasn't just a dream; he's still there, he always will be – he's inside my mind now, and he knows it…_I_ know it…he won't let me go."

The slender, cool fingers of the Elven princess found their way through the darkness and ran themselves reassuringly, lovingly, along her flushed cheek.  The other figures that stood behind her, as she perched on the edge of the bed next to the stricken young princess, were still and patient: a silent support and strength in the shadows, which had been so threatening.  Elowyn looked up; the emerald green eyes of Odessa-Gadriel looked back into hers.

"It was a dream, sweet one," she was told. "He won't come for you – and no darkness will take you, not when you have friends to stand guard around you."

"We're here," murmured Prince Skye's voice. "We're here, and we love you, Elowyn.  Never forget that – _never_."

Elowyn looked at all of them: one by one.  They would try so hard to help her; they would do anything to save her, anything at all, if they could…but would it be enough?

Could she let them sacrifice themselves – everything – for her?

She nodded, tried to smile.  Weakness.

"I know…" she whispered.

_Just a dream…  _

*                       *                       *

A/N: But is it really? Or is Elowyn destined to be yet more tormented by her memories – and by reality? There is only one way for us all to find out…read on! (And reviews are, as you all well know, greatly appreciated.) ^_~


	18. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen –

To Touch the Depths of Thoughts that You Cannot Fathom

'_Even now, you long for the darkness again…you knew your truest desires in that moment, that moment that we shared: together touching the depths of true passion.  Don't you remember, Princess?  You desired me as I desired you, in that moment – our souls merged as one: knowing only each other, for those few precious seconds…_

_We are bound together now – forever.  _

_You remember – that moment didn't mean nothing, and you know it.  It meant much more than you can imagine; we are tied together now by a bond that will not be broken: not by time, not by struggle, not by hatred, the light nor the darkness.  _

_We are one.  You are mine now…_

_You are in me, as I am in you…'_

It could not be.  Such things were not possible – even in a world like hers, where nothing was impossible.  But this…this _was_.

Wasn't it?

Deeply disturbed by the memories and new thoughts that had begun to flow, first at a gentle cascade and then increasingly faster and more torrential, Elowyn paced slowly through the silvery halls of the castle of her Elven kin.  Her eyes were downcast and demur, her lashes veiling the pure luminous jade of her gaze, and her demeanor was quiet and pensive.

But within, she was in turmoil.

What had that meant – when his voice had whispered in her mind that now they two: she, the faery princess, and he, the Dark Lord, were now bound together by some unbreakable tie, for all of eternity?  How could that be?  A kiss was a kiss, she had tried telling herself; no matter what he thought, she had only let him slip under her guard, only surrendered herself to him, for a moment.  How could such an exceedingly short and fleeting thing pave the course of all destiny?

Could she believe him?

At this, she shook her head, almost unknowingly.  _That_, of course, was impossible: above all else.  She could never believe anything that he had told her.  She didn't want to.

_But when the truth had come, and was looking her directly in the face…?_

She knew that at least part of what he had said, in her dreams, was reality: she had enjoyed that moment, and she had been willing to let them share it – that kiss – together.  She had indeed given in to her abruptly insane heart's longings, though she didn't know why she had so suddenly desired him.  _Him_ – that was why.  He desired her, for whatever dark reasons that he had within his corrupted being; he desired her, and he had captivated her.

_But,_ she recalled, knowing this full well, _Desire is not love – nor does it bear promises…_

No more, she had tried to tell herself, upon first awakening back in her old room, in Avalennon: with the beloved faces of her family, her mother, father, and several of her siblings, other relatives, and friends looking down on her.  No more would she think of him, think of what might have been, had she remained in that dark chamber with him only a few moments longer.  No more would she consider – lie awake at night – thinking of how her life might have changed, had she completely surrendered her will to the Dark Lord.

Such resolutions were indeed far too assertive…

The thought of him would not leave her.  Every day, as she tried to live her life as normal – as she had before her kidnapping, her imprisonment, and everything else – she found herself feeling as if she was denying the truth, denying reality.  She felt scrutinized.  

_Haunted._

So she began to push out of her mind and her life all things that would remind her of the past, of those horrible memories.  She shunned the nighttime, shunned shadows and solitude in the darkness, shunned thoughts of forbidden romance.  Fervently, she threw herself back into her studies, into riding Orpheus through the grounds of Iordania, into attending events with Skye and Odessa-Gadriel and the others, into writing to her parents and enjoying her new way of life to the fullest – into brushing through her days without a thought of the one who so haunted her dreams at night with memories.

When she dreamed, however, that voice still came to haunt her; he was there, inside of her, now – she could hardly understand how, or when, or why, but he was there.  

_Dark One._

Elowyn stopped, suddenly, and turned her jade-green gaze up to the ceiling, which was riddled with etchings of silvery vines and sparkling blooms of white fire-gems.  The midday was quiet and serene around her, as the pale yellow sun shone gently above the gardens outside, a playful wind stirring through the evergreen bushes, trees, and flowers.

_What do you want from me now – revenge?  Can I possibly ever know?  Why do you want me…why won't you leave me…_

Unable to sense even the slightest answer to those questions – for the air around her provided nothing but silence – she went on again in her meanderings through the palace.  At length, she looked up from the floor and glanced at the wall that was a little ways from her.  She was near the library wing of the palace by now, and every which way she looked, some denizen of the rich educational and historical worlds looked back at her.  

There was a royal family lineage hanging up on that wall, she noticed; with nothing else to do but continue in her confusing train of thoughts, and very much wanting to get away from those, hopeless as they were, she went to it.

Eyes of a shade of green that was nearly indefinable – jade, sea-coloured, and spring-like all at the same time – looked up at the carefully preserved manuscript.

_The Ancestry of the Royal Family of Avalennon_

_Or_

_The Lineage of Orandor Raven-Helm and Vahlada, Lady of the Sun_

_Annotated by the Scribes of Raes-Floranen_

_–  mark indicates marriage._

_Orandor, Lord of the White Realm, son of Talius and Beheren – Vahlada, Lady of the White Realm, daughter of Estal and Pavaea_

_-Beget-_

_Taiven, eldest son_

_Ansellus, son – Gyrael _

_Novia, daughter_

_Galena, daughter – Eírald_

_Mardyos, son_

_Willith, son; twin of Mardyos _

_Kistella, daughter – Avor_

_Dranthor, son – Miari_

_Gavin, son_

_Elladine, daughter – Arin_

_Elowyn, daughter; adopted of Diarnan and Lhanallis,_

_ May the Three forever keep them, and may they rest in peace in the Realm of Souls._

_-Extended Kin of the Royal Family-_

_Isdera, sister of Vahlada – Lannon,_

_-Beget-_

_Lannon II, son - Netalla_

_Orlando, son – Arielle_

_Calista, daughter_

_Cassandra, daugher; twin of Calista_

_Lannon II – Netalla_

_-Beget-_

_Salamaïre, daughter___

_Brendan, brother of Orandor_

The list went on for a while, and Elowyn followed it down the wall, soon traveling from the current royal family in Avalennon to the ancient clans – which went back a dizzying amount of years, she found – and came to the other family trees: those of Skye and Odessa-Gadriel, the past rulers of both Elvendome and the White Realm, and several others.  

It was hard to follow all of the family ties: on paper and in real life.  She had only really concerned herself with what she knew in her own reality before – her father was Orandor, her mother was Vahlada, and she had ten sisters and brothers, including Gavin and Elladine.  She had a cousin, Orlando, who was married to a half-faery beauty named Arielle, and her cousin-twice-removed, daughter of Orlando's brother, was Sala.  Robbie was her sister's son, making him Elowyn's nephew, even though he had been born _before_ her, a cause of never-ending teasing for the unfortunate crown prince.  She was also related, somehow, to Prince Skye and Princess Odessa-Gadriel, of the Elven kingdom.  There were friends of the family; there were relatives so obscure that she would never figure out her true blood-connection to them, and everyone else—

Elowyn felt eyes on the back of her head.

A slow, numbing chill scurrying down through her entire being, starting from the crown of her head and racing to her feet, she stiffened.  

With a flash of bright, white light, a vision exploded into her head.

_There was a mirror hanging on the wall behind her: a great, long mirror that was framed in glowing gold and silver, and within its reflective depths, she saw a figure standing.  It was motionless, watching her, with piercing, all-knowing eyes of intense violet-gray, which shone from underneath the overshadowing hood of his black cloak…_

Elowyn suddenly whirled around, long, wavy curls of pale gold spinning out around her and creating an aura of light about her head; her breath caught in her throat, she felt her life's blood cease to flow in her veins, she stared—

But as soon as she had moved, the vision disappeared, winking out like a candle that had just been snuffed.  _No!_

And when she next realized what was happening, she found that she was standing right at that mirror, her hands having moved to grip the frame on either side of it: holding so tight that her knuckles showed the white bones beneath her pale, fine skin of porcelain, and the carved edges began to pinch her.  She was almost pressed against the mirror.

Instantly, returning to herself, she stood away: a look of confusion and remorse – disgust – coming over her face.  What on earth had he dissembled in her mind, to make her behave like this?  Surely, she felt no more for him than what a captive would inherently feel for her captor: anger, bitter resentment, and, ever so slightly, fear.  Yes, she now conceded: as she took yet another step away from the mirror, gazing at it with eyes that were now wide and dark with grave solemnity and knowledge; yes, she must definitely fear him.  Jaedin, the Dark Lord of Sytherria, was an entity to be feared, and yet she must never let her fear to overcome her.

But now, as everything around her now threatened to change, yet again, and become as strange and awful and unfamiliar as her own memories, she knew yet another thing…

She must change as well.

With one last startled, bemused glance at the mirror, the young princess of the faeries turned and ran, leaving the mirror – and whatever darkness it had contained – behind her.

*                       *                       *

Odessa-Gadriel had just finished reading yet another book from the library that Skye had given her, indulgently, as a present for her last birthday, and was going to replace it on its shelf when there was a knock on the door across the room from her.

With a brief, careless gesture of one hand – a movement that was still full of incredible, inhuman grace and power – she bade the door open.  It did, and in a moment, the breathless and pale figure of the young princess Elowyn breezed in. 

The Elven princess's dark eyebrows drew together in a bit of a puzzled, concerned frown, as she stepped forward and gathered the pallid child's hands into her own.

"Elowyn, dearest, what is it?" she asked.  _Not another dream; let him haunt her days and nights no more,_ she prayed earnestly to the Three, and every one of the Seven Powers of the World. "You're absolutely ashen – are you all right?"

Wide jade-green eyes stared back into her own emerald gaze: searching and, it seemed, haunted.  Odessa-Gadriel felt a twinge of unease; _Not again…_

But Elowyn made never a mention of the Dark Lord.

Her words were far more startling.

"Odessa-Gadriel…you are, of all things in this place, fairest…" 

A pause, as if she was about to make a life-altering decision. 

"Could you make me like you?"

*                       *                       *

Iordania was filled, within a fortnight, with thousands of newcomers – travelers and guests, namely, as the annual Embassy Ball was to be held in celebration of the first days of summer.  It was a fabulous and long-kept affair, implemented in the early days of the world when the faeries of the White Realm and the Elves had been supreme rulers of their world.  Now, it was still held – in order to celebrate the diversities and friendships of the races gifted with the powers of magic and enchantment – in spite of the fact that the faeries and all those like them were becoming more and more beings of fantasy and legend in the mortal lands.  

The celebration itself went on for three and a half weeks, and every day of it was rife with banquets, cotillions, balls, and other sorts of formal functions.  

It was said that each gown worn by each lady at the Embassy Ball was equal to the lifetime work of a hundred mortal seamstresses, and it was true – not one gown was the same, or even remotely resembled another.  It was a veritable sea of colour, shape, and size, and that was only speaking of the ladies' apparel.  The men and children's garb further extended the list, until it seemed as if it would reach past the very ends of infinity…

Upon the night of the ball, the city was awash with colour, sound, smell, and movement: decorations and finery were to be seen in every which direction, as the exalted guests – hailing from lands far and near, utterly foreign and nearby neighbor – made their way in a steady stream towards the castle.  This night, it was noted by the crowds who stood nearest to the gate, it seemed that there was to be a more diverse crowd than usual.

This was caused by the arrival of a company of tall, grim, and quiet figures, all of whom rode tall and assured upon the backs of sleek, clean-limbed horses.  All wore identical, ascetic attire: white tunics with scarlet cloaks, a gold broach as a fastening.  Their leader, however, who stood out among their ranks, was resplendent and utterly captivating in his black cloak and dark, mysterious swirling robes of some strange, velvety black material, which shimmered a deep, wine-hued maroon whenever the light happened to glance upon it.

_Vampyres,_ was the whisper that went through the crowd, and many a gaze was turned upon the new arrivals, who rode directly up to the palace itself, and disappeared.  

There was a host of widely varying emotions in the air then.

Everyone who had ever learnt anything about vampyres knew of their most obvious traits, which set them totally apart from any of the other Sentient races.  They were solitary beings, who would commune with one another much more often than anyone else, and even then, they were rarely in the company of each other.  Most of the time, they could be found in the lands of the far north, in the forests that travelers infrequently visited.  People alternately feared and were awed and intrigued by them, not having much knowledge about the race.  

Of course, when it came right down to it, the seeming 'scarcity' of the vampyres could have _easily_ been explained by their nocturnal habits.  Vampyres were exceedingly 'allergic', it was well known, to the light of the sun.  More than three days' exposure to it would kill one.  

Thus it was that they kept to life at night, and thus it was that not very many people could boast about having actually met a true vampyre.  

Outwardly, the race resembled the faeries and the Elves; however, vampyres _did_ have a _slight_ difference of appearance, other than their pale complexions: devoid of the sun's tanning effect.  One look at a vampyre's smile would make obvious this variation – all vampyres had very white, very sharp-looking incisors: improperly labeled 'fangs'. Anyone who called them that did not stand the chance of ever getting a vampyre's good opinion.  

Beyond this, there were many more mysteries to the vampyrian people, but no one had ever really made a move to discover just what those were.  Vampyres naturally stood out in the crowd, even among such a diverse and fair crowd as this one happened to be, and there was not a small amount of wonder in the onlookers…

Vampyres – in Elvendome, in Iordania.  

What kind of omen was _this_?

*                       *                       *

A/N:  What kind of omen is this indeed?  Perhaps we are about to come face-to-face with a new character…?  This I cannot tell…  *winks*  So, please, on to the next chapter.  Jaedin and I command it.  ^_^

(And do r&r.)


	19. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen – 

The Wolf and His Fair Prey:

Lord Valdeth and Princess Elowyn Have a Waltz

When the Princess Odessa-Gadriel had presented her young faery relative to her veritable army of handmaidens with the command to transform her into what would prove to be none but the most dazzling of royal debutantes, there was a mixture of apprehension, reluctance, and anticipation in the air.  The ladies glanced at one another, in questioning silence.

It could not be denied that it would be a most wonderful task of turning the faery princess out into the masses of guests at the upcoming Embassy Ball, to be gazed upon and admired by all…but then, there _was_ her rather checkered past with attempts towards making her a court lady, a beauty of royal blood with a wardrobe, comportment, and face to match…

"Make her feel beautiful," were Odessa-Gadriel's last words in her speech to them, and that clinched it.  The Elven ladies would make the Princess Elowyn a court beauty.

The process was long and arduous, but incredibly intriguing, Elowyn found.  The whole horde of them descended on her like moths seeking the light of a lantern, and, instead of worming her way out of their midst and running as if the lords of the underworld were after her soul, she remained where she was and let them go to work.  

And it wasn't at all as she had imagined…

First, they combed out her glorious long hair and worked all sorts of wonderful-smelling products into it; they were 'preparing it', they told her, 'for the later work.'  Well, this wasn't unpleasant at all, and she let herself be almost lulled off to sleep by the massaging touch of the handmaids' fingers on her head.  Then came the lotions, the oils and perfumes, until she felt as if she were walking in a veritable cloud of sweet fragrances: rose, gardenia, bergamot, and a thousand others.  Her fingernails were filed and buffed until they gleamed, and then the one painful part of the whole ordeal – the eyebrow plucking, which she would _always_ remember with a shudder.

She had always hated this: all the fluff and fuss, the ruffles and baubles and constraints – but, now that she had been forced by inestimable Fate to change her ways, she was beginning to realize that she really did love what she had thought she had despised all along.

In her case, such a principle – of hating and then loving something – applied to fashion and appearances _alone_, she told herself.

_Didn't it?_

Of course it did.

They tried out a hundred different looks of accenting makeup on her features: never once actually letting Elowyn see herself in a mirror, for they wanted to save the surprise for her until the very last – which would be the grand Embassy Ball, six days away.  In the meantime, she was fitted and created a whole new wardrobe…of _gowns_.  

Gowns, the very articles of clothing that she had, for so long, despised; and all were full-skirted, elaborate-sleeved, jewel-ridden affairs, with undergarments, jewelry, headpieces, and shoes to match.  The colours and textures blurred before her eyes, and she could only do but one thing – nod yes: yes, _yes_, with increasing delight and interest as the materials and accents and styles were paraded before her in one long, seemingly endless train.  _How surprised Robbie and Sala will be when they come, _she thought…

And slowly, the night of the Embassy Ball approached.

Elowyn felt that _that_ moment couldn't have come soon enough, when her special group of handmaidens came to collect her from her walk in the gardens, with Orpheus strolling along at her side.  Whirling around her in a haze of pastel silk and flying hands, they swept her up and bore her along with them into her rooms, where she bathed and had her makeup and hair done for the night's events.  The look was to be dramatic but shimmering, she was told.

Then, they brought out the gown.

Elowyn recalled how, in all of the stories of her predecessor heroines of family and friends, there had always been at least one gown: The Gown.

And now, she was looking hers in the face.

Of silver velvet, it was, and accented with sparkling white tulle and a deep, velvety blue satin that was as dark as the night sky.  Gems of diamonds and sapphires and pearls were scattered all about it on the sleeves and elaborate skirt, and its voluminous train swept out to at least two feet behind her, whispering secrets whenever she moved.  The ornately detailed bodice came away from her shoulders, framing her bosom becomingly, edged with lace; its sleeves were tight until just above her elbow, and then poured down, full and elegant, to a point far below her fingertips.  

Her hair was studded with gems, piled in all of its curls atop her head, with a ribbon of that same sapphire blue tied around it as well.  The final touch of the glamorous outfit was her jewelry: a diamond and sapphire necklace that emphasized the gracefulness of her swan-like neck, the perfect proportions of her head face, and the soft curves of her young figure.

Here was the Princess: Elowyn of Avalennon.

She gazed at herself in the mirror, and – for a single moment – all the darkness and uncertainties and fears of her life at that time fled away, like bats from a bell tower at dawn.

_Is this me?_

She could hardly believe it, but it was.  The bold, adventuresome, free-spirited Princess Elowyn had always been beautiful, although she had never felt it: dazzling and fair as the first day of a new Spring…but now she saw before her the fair creature who was within, the Princess Elowyn that could be, when she so desired.

_The Princess Elowyn who she had dreamed of being, deep within her heart._

She turned round and looked at the ring of handmaids who stood around her; all of them had tears in their eyes, and were smiling in unabashed pride and happiness.  Elowyn heard the noise of swishing skirts, from behind them, and looked to see Odessa-Gadriel, just as she entered the room.  The Elven princess stopped and gazed at her: full red lips curving, her eyes sparkling knowing and proud.  Elowyn smiled at her, in pure ecstatic joy.

"Thank you," she told them all. "_Thank you so much_…"

_You've no idea how grateful I am to you…_

And a fleeting thought passed through her head then: one that was pushed firmly, immediately aside…_I wonder what _He_ would think of me…_

*                       *                       *

The ball was just getting underway when Elowyn made her way onto the jade-accented dais upon which the thrones of Prince Skye and Princess Odessa-Gadriel were to be found.  Skye looked as devastatingly handsome and gallant as always in his tunic and breeches of midnight blue, which had slashes of pure white satin showing through here and there, and embellishments of silver, including the circlet that he wore on his head to signify his rank.  Odessa-Gadriel was resplendent and dazzling, as always, in her full-skirted gown of deep wine-red and gold, the jewel-tones of the material matching her perfect complexion and ebony hair, and bringing out the sparkling intensity of her rich emerald green eyes.  

Elowyn smiled, happy to see them, and went round to stand in front of the thrones, dipping in a profound, swelling curtsey: ultra-formal faery style.  Skye's vivid golden eyes held more than just a hint of surprise when he'd seen her, and then his entire face nearly split in a dazzling white grin.  Odessa-Gadriel merely smiled a small, immensely pleased smile, looking on.

"Elowyn!" Skye said, rising to greet her. "You look absolutely stunning!  Dearest," he said, turning now to his wife with a rather playful look on his face then, "_Whatever_ did you let your ladies do to her?"

"Only what she requested, my love," was the Elven princess's demure but equally mischievous reply. "Elowyn, I am _so_ glad that you like the dress."

Upon hearing this, Elowyn couldn't help but smile as well.  The whole scene – the seemingly theatrical picture of herself, in a lavish ball gown, done up as a regal princess, at a gala ball held in celebration of international friendships and alliances – seemed all too wonderful, and yet still all very real, to her.  She knew that, before, she could have never imagined herself there, as she was at that very moment; she had always fought so strenuously against the bonds and rules of society…but now, it was different.  She no longer fought…because _she_ had made the choice.  _She_ had set her own rules.  She didn't have to change; she merely formed a new reality for herself, made an addition to her life.  She hadn't been coerced.

She had made the choice.

_And how she now loved it!_

Her smile lighting her sea green eyes and making them sparkle like jewels, she curtsied again to her two friends, and replied, "Thank you so much, Odessa-Gadriel – and you, as well, Skye.  You have been so wonderful to me, this entire time that I've been here…and you have _no_ idea how grateful I am to you, for everything.  I can never hope to repay you fully."

Skye held out a hand to Odessa-Gadriel, who rose from her throne, and they both came to stand with Elowyn, forming a circle of the three of them: hands linking.  

"You don't even have to think about it," Skye said. "Know this, if you are certain of nothing else, now – we love you, Elowyn: all of us do, and nothing will ever change that."

"Our hearts hold you as more precious than you can imagine," added the other princess, and Elowyn smiled at them both, then reached out and put her arms around both of them.

"And I love you too," she whispered.

Then, they all three assumed their seats – Skye and Odessa-Gadriel in their thrones, looking out upon the guests in the ball room, and Elowyn, in the smaller throne that had been placed behind both of theirs, as an indication of her place of honour as a visiting princess.  The ball became more lively and gay as more and more guests arrived, and more songs were whirled out by the full orchestra that was in the royal family's employ.  Elowyn sat and watched each dance – each waltz, pavane, minuet, allemande, and a host of others – from her seat behind the two enormous golden thrones.  She was content to remain in her secluded spot and simply observe, although she was asked to take a turn on the dance floor several times by various gentlemen.  

Her thoughts strayed far and near, focusing at one moment on one particular lady's headdress, to the way the moonlight grazed upon a rose's soft petals just outside the windows nearby, to thinking of her family, to Robbie and Sala's upcoming arrival, to many, many other things.  She slowly slipped out of reality, becoming wrapped up in the world of her mind…

And it wasn't until she had heard the voice – heard the greeting it gave to the prince and princess before her – that she noticed the tall, imposing, and strikingly attractive figure who had just materialized out of the crowd of guests, coming to stand on the steps that fronted the dais, making an elegant bow to the pair in front of her.

Then, all at once, her eyes narrowed.

_Who are you…_

"May the Seven's blessings be ever upon you, Prince and Princess," the guest had said; now, he was straightening from his bow, coming up from it to stand at his full height.  He looked to be remarkably tall, even from fifteen feet or so off.  

Elowyn found her gaze riveted on him.

She had not yet before seen this person, whomever he was, which meant that he had obviously arrived later than most of the other guests, and was also apparently not of the normal inhabitants of Iordania.  Her scrutiny of him revealed an intriguing figure.

His height was, she judged, around the upper level of six-foot range: probably about six foot eight or nine was her decision, and with a figure was properly suited to that height – slender and straight, without being incredibly thin or lanky either, with hints at fine musculature in the bones of his neck and hands.  Most of his form was elegantly draped in a long, full-cut black cloak and tunic, the latter of which was some sort of black velvet that glinted a dark maroon colour in the light at times; belted with leather, which showed the slim, tapered waist of its wearer.  Its hem reached to a little past his knees, cut on the sides and front to allow greater freedom of movement, revealing the black breeches and boots that he wore underneath it.  Its sleeves were also full-cut, with a tighter-fitting shirt of pure black velvet underneath, the cuffs of which came down low over his gloved hands, and the neckline of which came up high on his neck.

And his face – _that face_!

It was coincidence, that was all, she tried to tell herself; it had to be true that there was more than one person in her entire world who resembled another person…it was possible that someone could, in all truth, have an appearance similar to _Him_ – she was just spooking herself, making herself see things, think things, that were not, in reality, what she thought…

But _that face_!

He – whomever he was – had certainly the most unnervingly handsome face that she had ever seen, in complete concordance with his figure.  And this was saying quite a lot, for all of her life, Elowyn had been surrounded by the most beautiful people in Evyrworld as a whole.  His features were proud and bold, masculine with a fairness that took her breath away.  There was a sort of knowledge, an inner, secret mysteriousness and intelligence, wit and subtle sarcasm, in his features: his eyes were outlined by dark lashes, overshadowed by sweeping brows that quirked perfectly in their darkness, watchful and piercing in the midst of his broad, high forehead.  

She could not tell what colour those eyes were…

His chin was flawlessly sculpted, down to the chiseled, romantic dip in its center, and he had, she realized, the very fullest lips that she had ever seen – marked with a scar on the right side of his upper lip, giving him a roguish and dashing look as his mouth curved in a smile, etching into the corners of itself.  Good cheekbones, she noted, with slight indentations under his eyes that appeared as he smiled, a strong, prominent nose that looked as if it might have had a run-in with blunt force sometime in the distant past, nevertheless extremely attractive.  

He moved well also: graceful and elegant, self-assured with an edge of some sort, almost as if he were daring the world to confront him.  The gestures that he made with those long, slender hands, underneath their gloves, were fluid and poised, as if their owner had no doubts as to his own accomplishments and strengths whatsoever.

And his head was totally shaven – utterly bereft of any hair whatsoever.

Elowyn leaned forward, ever so slightly, trying to see his eyes; if anything would tell her the truth, it would be his eyes.  Part of her desperately wanted to know…but part of her was shrinking back, trying to escape, to hide, crying out: _No!  No, it's impossible!  It cannot be – it cannot be!  No, the shadows cannot return – make them go away – LEAVE ME BE!_

And then, out of her whirling delirium, came Skye's voice, replying in a cordial but somewhat perplexed tone, "And you as well.  Whom may we have the pleasure of welcoming into our realm of Iordania?"

The specter – for, surely, that is what the figure that she saw before herself had to be: only yet another bad dream, a haunting, a wraith of her own tormented imagination and mind – swept another elaborate bow, and straightened: an utterly charming and somehow mischievous smile playing about his full lips.  Not only did he have good features, Elowyn's mind told her: in an offbeat moment of thought, he also had the look of one who is neither young nor old, but somehow both.  _His eyes seem as if they could tell of the history of the world, and yet his face is one of a boy as young as me…_

"I am Lord Valdeth of Isinvaele, emissary of Premier Rensellus – who sends his best wishes for your continued well-being and the eternal prosperity of your rule."

His voice was frighteningly familiar.  She was slipping further and further into one realization, which determined all – _she knew this person, this Lord Valdeth_.

Skye, meanwhile, had turned his head to glance briefly at Odessa-Gadriel, who barely noticeable raised a dark, curving eyebrow, returning his questioning look.  Skye looked back to the figure who stood on the steps before them, and replied, "Ah yes – the ruler of the vampyres who make their dwelling in the distant west.  We are pleased to have an emissary of his with us."

Valdeth, if that was indeed his _true_ name, as Elowyn doubted it _wasn't_, inclined his head to the side, in an urbane show of respect and recognition.  He had, she noticed, a very cool, but rather smirk-like expression on his face then – it could still pass for the charming smile of the moment before, but it had altered somehow, to her.  Secretly.

Then, from Odessa-Gadriel: "You will be sojourning in our city with our other guests for some time, we hope, Lord Valdeth?"

And the vampyre nobleman turned to her with the most gallant and chivalrous air imaginable about him.  In his voice that was not quite tenor and not quite baritone, dry and cultured with a tinge of wit that could surely be incredibly scathing and sharp, he told her, "That may be as may be, your Graciousness.  I am _flattered_ by your invitation."

The shaven head turned back, centering the gaze of those unreadable eyes back on both of the thrones again, and for the first time that evening, Elowyn rued having let them place her there, directly behind the two thrones, in perfect view of _everyone_.

"We are honoured to have all our guests." Skye said, in answer to his words.

Valdeth inclined his head once again: lashes flickering down to veil his impenetrable gaze, full lips curving ever so slightly.

"But of course." And then, of course – the inevitable happened.  He raised his head and looked directly past the thrones, past the prince and princess, to Elowyn: his gaze piercing straight and unflinching into her eyes.  In that moment, she knew just who she was looking at.  _For his eyes were silvery gray, with flecks – hints – of violet in their depths…_

The dark eyebrows rose.

"Ah, and this fair creature who lurks here behind the thrones, looking as if she had much rather be off in a library somewhere, curled up with only a book for company – this must be the famed Princess Elowyn, daughter of the Lord Orandor and Lady Vahlada of Avalennon."

Elowyn stood.

It didn't matter why he was here, or how he had come – nothing mattered now, except that he was here; he had followed her, when haunting her every waking and dreaming hour had proved not enough for him to torment her.  And her anger knew no bounds.

But, very carefully masking that anger, she stepped around Skye and Odessa-Gadriel's thrones, coming to stand at the very front of the dais, just above the first step down.  Looking down, straight into the face of the vampyre nobleman who stood before her, she scanned his features: searching, knowing, and very coldly.  Finally, then, she spoke.

"When came you to this realm, Lord Valdeth?" Her tone was like breaking ice.

The liquid-mercury eyes gazed back into hers: unhesitating, unafraid, cool, and completely unreadable, although they, in turn, scanned across her face as well.

"Only this very night, fair one."

"Then tell me – what road did you take?"

Enigmatically, and knowingly, purposefully so, she thought: "One that led me o'er hill and dale, and through many a dark, twisted wood."

_Many a dark, twisted wood indeed – now tell me, do you simply _want_ me to trap you?_

Sea green eyes narrowing even more, Elowyn inquired of him, coldly and evenly, her voice utterly devoid of any motion but for suspicion and dislike, "And what can you tell me of such forests?"

Valdeth stood back, straightening to his full height again, and seemed to tower over her, even though she was standing above him on the dais, and was wearing high-heeled slippers.  

Elowyn glared at him.

_I _know_ who you are!_

"Only that they are even as labyrinthine and shadowy as they are made out to be in the stories we tell…" he replied. Then, even more cryptically, but playful at the same time, "And that they may be very threatening – _if_ one has no guide." 

And on that note, he lapsed into silence and they stood there: staring at one another, Elowyn's eyes full of loathing, fulminating in her anger; his, cool and calm and as totally unreadable as before.  

The moment stretched on, wordless and seemingly bound for infinity.  

Then, finally, Odessa-Gadriel asked her young cousin, "Elowyn…what kind of puzzle are you putting to Lord Valdeth?"

Elowyn stared at the vampyre in silence, with still narrowed eyes, for a moment longer, and then she replied, without taking her eyes off of him, "One of wolves and men." Then, looking at her guardians, she said, in a murmur, "Excuse me, milord – milady."

And she turned and left the dais, sweeping in a whirl of whispering skirts, gently stirring curls of pale gold, and a breeze of perfume, right past Lord Valdeth.  She disappeared into the crowd, her beautiful silver figure melting into its masses even as they all three looked on.  Valdeth watched her go: his eyes the only part of him to move.  Yet another long, silent moment passed – then, at length, Skye spoke again, making an attempt to fill in the uncomfortable gap.

"We hope that you will enjoy the ball, Lord Valdeth."

The vampyre's eyes seemed to have focused on something – more specifically, _someone_: a certain medium-height, golden-haired and perilously fair young princess, to be exact – and he didn't reply for a beat.  Then, returning to his former charming and elegant self within that exact same instant, he turned back to the prince and princess, a bright smile cascading across his handsome features: fully exposing the set of straight white teeth that resided behind his lips, along with their sharp, curved incisors – vampyre fame.

"I thank you, your Graces.  I will."

With that, he bowed once again to them, and made his departure.

*                       *                       *

The song that the orchestra was now playing was one that Elowyn remembered well: for years, as a child, she had lain awake in her bedroom and listened to the sounds of laughter, music, and general gaiety coming from the rooms beneath her own chamber – the noises of the various balls and other events that had been held at Avalennon.  As an adolescent, she had always shunned such events, having preferred to run off to her room, the Tower of Lore, or one of the many libraries, to read a book and shut out the noise of the formalities that she so deplored.  

But the songs were still there, inside her mind, ingrained in her consciousness…

Now, as she stood in the wings of the ballroom, just to the side of the dance floor, almost completely under the shadows of the pillars that lined the space, she watched the couples that were twirling about on the marble floor, listening to the music.

But her thoughts were elsewhere.

_He was there; he had come for her._

Her train of thought was interrupted by the sense that someone was standing behind her: quite close at hand, actually.  She could feel the warmth radiating off of his body.  Preparing herself for battle and ignoring the frisson of fear that went through her entire frame, she clenched her teeth and flexed her fingers; then she turned.

The sight that greeted her, upon her movement, was a conjured picture of a wood: trees, undergrowth, ground, and all, were there, with shafts of golden sunlight piercing through the heavily foliated canopy overhead.  A flickering shadow went through the dark lines of the trees, however – a wolf, lurking about in the shadows.  Then, the vision disappeared in a burst of sparkling golden shards, destroyed by a gesture from the hands of its maker.  

Elowyn looked up.  Her eyes initially met the broad, flat expanse of a masculine chest, and slowly climbed up and up until she saw powerful shoulders, a throat, a neck, a chin – and at last, the shadowy face.  Lord Valdeth's voice: cool, tainted with a velvety arrogance, and yet still dry and sarcastic as ever, cynical, cut through the air to her.

"Can a soul _truly _find comfort in wandering from the marked path and indulging in wild flowers?" he questioned her, putting a riddle of his own to her this time. "For their beauty will last in memory alone – they have nothing to do but fade and wither away, as time touches them."

Elowyn raised a questioning, arched eyebrow: as cool and haughty as he.

"Fleeting pleasures are memories, it is true," she replied. "But they _can_ be forgotten."

"Or made much of," was his rejoinder.

Then he moved, stirred in the shadows, coming now to stand in front of her, so that the light hit upon the back of his head, highlighting those features that she now knew she recognized so well – for in the shadows was all she had ever seen him, before…

He smiled.

"Would the princess honour me with a dance?"

A gloved hand extended itself to her.

Elowyn glared at the black-leather palm and then up at its owner.  With exceeding coldness, she answered, "Why would she _stoop_ to such a thing?"

"That is for her to decide…" he told her. "But – she might _enjoy_ it."

_Oh you!_

And she could do naught to resist – she was forced to let him lead her out onto the dance floor.  There, they assumed the waltz position: his arm went around her waist, encircling her and drawing her unnervingly close to him, while his other hand clasped hers, his fingers moving to twine with her own as she gathered the skirts of her gown into one hand, in order to keep them out of the way of her feet.  She looked up into the face of her partner; still he smiled at her, knowing and arrogant, tormenting her with his every strength.  

They began to dance. 

Look at the Princess Elowyn, was the whisper that went through the court then – quite a few of the souls present there that night turned to look and wonder at the pair.  Look at her: such a beauty…who would have guessed?  And the one who is dancing with her – that is the vampyre lord, arrived just this very night, not an hour ago.  How beautiful they are together…

Meanwhile, Elowyn was inwardly surging with rage, and she only just hid it from everyone there, although the tight, frigid resistance of her body to his touch told Lord Valdeth just exactly what she was thinking at that moment.  They whirled through the other dancers with great ease and grace, moving perfectly as one, but all the while in silence.

Finally, from him: "The princess will not speak to me then – or at least of her own will?"

Elowyn steadfastly denied him the triumph of looking into her face; her eyes riveting on something on the wall, elsewhere, she replied, in a sweet tone that was really fraught with nasty coldness and venom, "I find more pleasures in _calculus_, you son of a pit-viper."

Her epithet seemed to have merely amused him.  For he laughed, velvety and urbane, then commented, "Ah – so not quite as much the diligent scholar then?  I think I _may_ see why…"

Again, she refused to look at him, and Valdeth found himself forced to resort to darker methods.  Lowering his head so that he could whisper directly into her ear, his lips brushing against her hair, her skin, he murmured his words to her.

"Something so perilously fair – so incredibly, _undeniably beautiful_, should not be so cold and so angry.  You are as lovely as the dawn, as the newborn Spring, Elowyn.  Do you not know this?  For I can see no one, can behold nothing but _you_…and yet – what will become of this fair white lily?  What ray of the sun will melt the cold frost which guilds its peerless perfection?  In time, it _must_ either bloom or die."

Upon hearing this – these words that held either a given fact of the future, or a hardly veiled threat – Elowyn tore her eyes from the floor, from his hand as it rested on her waist, holding her to him, and flicked them up to meet his.  Her gaze of sea green jade met his of liquid, silvery mercury, and for a moment, something passed in between them: the mysterious vampyre nobleman, and the beautiful young princess – something that bespoke of more than word-fencing, and more than a simple dislike on her part…

Within a split second, she had taken her hands out of his, locking her fingers around his wrists, and dragged them both off of the dance floor, into the shadows beneath the pillars once more.  Valdeth looked at her with a peculiar, unreadable expression on his face, although it could be seen, upon closer scrutiny, that something had just gone through his eyes again – some odd little emotion that could neither be duplicated nor defined.

Elowyn looked him full in the face: white and livid with either rage or fear, perhaps both.

"Do you think that I do not know you, dark one?" she asked him, her voice low and icy. "Can you possibly believe, for even a moment, that I have been unable to see through your mask – this guise?"

Valdeth looked on her with that same unreadable mixture of both light and shadow in his eyes once again, and managed to look convincingly innocent – although not to her.

"Princess!" he said, in a thoroughly wounded and confused tone. "I have put on no charade for you, nor anyone else.  Do you not believe me?  I told the prince and princess that I am the emissary of a ruler of the vampyres, my race – that I hail from a distant kingdom – betake yourself to ask any of them that came here with me of my identity and credulity, and they will tell you that I am, _in truth_, none other than Valdeth of Isinvaele."

Still the eyes of gray, flecked with their seemingly alight bits of violet, bored into hers.

"Even my lord himself would tell you the same."

But Elowyn shook her head, standing defiant and cold in his arms.

"Vampyre you may be," she said, slowly and evenly, and she drew closer to him as she said her next words: "_That_, at least, I doubt not.  But I know who you are, and you serve only one _true_ master – _yourself_.  You lie."

"And why would I, Princess?" he asked.  

Now he drew nearer to her, and Elowyn put up a hand between them, trying to push him back – to make him distance himself from her; only to have that hand arrested in his cold, vice-like, overpowering grip.  Insistently, inexorably, he pressed on: the inescapability of his singular voice mirrored by the pressure of his hand on hers – "Whisper to me now," he said, "Tell me, this very moment, with no delay, no denial, no evasion…_why_?"

Elowyn wrenched her hand away, pulling hard, and simultaneously flattened her free palm on his chest, pushing him back with a surprising strength.  Green eyes flashing, she stepped back: her jaw hard and set, her curving eyebrows made even more severe in their contour by the lightning of anger and loathing that was now in her face.

"Because _that_, villain," she told him, firmly and coldly, "Is what _wolves do_."

And again she brushed past him, her skirts whispering secrets – silvery secrets, of both danger and intrigue for that certain vampyre lord – and left him standing in the shadows, alone and bereft of his partner.  

Valdeth watched her go, never once moving to follow her but with his eyes.  A strange, dark smile slightly curved his full lips, an unnerving light glancing in his eyes.

"I can see that your clarity of perception will create some noteworthy difficulties for me, Princess…" Jaedin, the Dark Lord of Sytherria, said to the retreating figure of the Princess Elowyn.

"Our game continues…"

*                       *                       *

A/N: Criminy.  Not a new character after all…sorry, I just had to see if I could play with you all a bit there…but you probably saw it coming, didn't you?  ^_^  To the next chapter, and final installation of this, my most recent update…  Please r&r!


	20. Chapter Seveteen

Chapter Seventeen – 

The Wolf and His Fair Prey:

Lord Valdeth and Princess Elowyn Take a Walk in the Woods

Elowyn slept restlessly that night, after returning to her room – retiring early, and long before the ball had ended.  Several of her newly acquired ladies-in-waiting slept in the bedchamber that was next door to hers, and she was especially glad of the fact that she now had several guards keeping watch over her personal quarters.

_Not that that would help any, if he really wanted to get in and see me,_ she reflected, sourly, the next morning upon awakening.  

It was a bright, sunny day over Iordania, but that helped none.  

Obviously, her ruse to blend in with the other ladies of the court, by appearing in attire such as they did, had not deterred her nemesis from searching her out from among them.  For some odd reason, she felt that he could find her anywhere, no matter where she went or what she did to hide herself – or was that _his_ thought, that he had somehow insinuated into her brain?

Well, it mattered little.  Her standing at court at the moment required only that she behave as a princess did, and she would be glad to do so, for the time being.  Robbie and Sala had still yet to arrive and once again station themselves at her side, so adventuring any further would have to wait until that indeed came to pass.  

Still, there He was, in her memory, in her mind…

Elowyn suppressed a shudder.

What could he possibly want from her this time?  And how many times exactly had she asked herself _that_ question – never once turning up a reasonable answer?

She hadn't any idea what her dark enemy's plan was…but she knew that she would soon find out, whether by her own art, or his.  Somehow, she would discover what lay within his mind.  

However, now, she wouldn't put herself in a position that would make it easy for him to ensnare her – although it seemed to her, as she thought about it, that perhaps his intentions were altered from their previous form.  

After all, he had followed her all the way into her home territory – where she was surrounded by friends and family, and loyal subjects – and what possible motive could he have that would allow him to act rashly, when in such a dangerous position?  He had moved quickly before to capture her, and in his own palace, where no one could hold the place of ruler but him…

She again removed her mind from such thoughts.

_I will not remember, Jaedin of Sytherria._

All was quiet and cheerful around her; Elowyn looked up, from gazing at the skillfully woven carpet that was on the floor at her feet, and cast about herself.  Her room was as white and lovely as ever, hung with silken draperies and tapestries detailed with gold: there were her wardrobes, her writing desk, her book shelves and chair; there was the table by the fireplace, and the mantelpiece.  All these were hers, and she was safe.

_For the moment._

Well – whatever Jaedin wanted with her this time, he wasn't going to even get near to it until she had found out just exactly what it was.

And that could – in all likeliness – take a bloody long time.

*                       *                       *

Shortly after this, Elowyn rose from bed, washed up, dressed, and went downstairs to the small dining room – this being a chamber the size of a mortal cathedral – for breakfast.  

Here she found several of the morning servant detachment, but none of her friends.  Apparently, Skye and Odessa-Gadriel had had to breakfast early and then take off on a riding tour of the countryside with some of their more exalted guests, and her other friends had gone with them.  There was a letter arrived by courier that morning for her, however – upon opening it, she found that it was from her uncle Brendan, Robbie, and Sala.  

They had reached the port in the southern tip of Elvendome, and now estimated that they would be arriving in Iordania within two days' time.  This was an unexpected highlight in her day.  In spite of the renewed presence of her deadly enemy in her life, soon her comrades would be once more joining her.

Elowyn ate quickly and thanked the cook, then – taking one last piece of powdered-sugar-dusted toast with her to eat on the way – ran back to her room.  Skye and Odessa-Gadriel's absence meant that several of the guests, those of whom had not opted to go on the horseback outing, would be meandering through the gardens, left to their own devices.  

All she could hope was that _Lord Valdeth_ had chosen to go along with them.

She said an extra prayer to the Three for safety nonetheless.

It was told to her that yes, indeed, the Lord Valdeth had gone out on the ride; he was no longer in the palace that morning, and the older children of the prince and princess – three of them, and all under the age of ten – were all out and about in the gardens that day.  Cheered by this, Elowyn went to seek them out.  

On the way, she stopped to converse cordially with some of the guests, most of who were ladies who remembered Elowyn only as the adventurous, bold young princess who held an utmost dislike and disdain for gowns.  Now, they all complimented her on how lovely she looked in her lovely walking gown of pale salmon-pink and gold, and commented on how glad they were of her safety, after her awful ordeal in the horrid desert land of Sytherria.

_Ever with me, in my mind, aren't you, Dark One?_

This put a slight damper on Elowyn's mood, and now she put a bit more alacrity into her steps, her high-heeled slippered footfalls clicking rhythmic and light on the pebbled walkway.  Through the sunlit garden she passed, scanning this way and that for the third youngest child of Prince Skye and Princess Odessa-Gadriel – Shelbiraith, affectionately called 'Shelby', for short.  She had promised him a special surprise for behaving for his nurses and going to bed when he was told the night before, before she had gone off to get ready for the ball…

As she rounded a bend in the pathway, she suddenly heard voices from up ahead – a child's voice, high-pitched and sweet and questioning: Shelby.  

And a man's voice – infinitely deeper in pitch, although not quite baritone, but still not quite tenor: dry and cool in tone, resonant and instantly arresting.  

Elowyn froze right where she was, stiffening in horror, and a terrible fear flashed through her green eyes, darkening them.  

_Shelby!_

She picked up her skirts and walked quickly towards the sounds of those two voices, horrible trills of icy fear going up and down her back all the while.  _No, no, no – not Shelby, he's too young, don't tell me, not Shelby…_ was all she could think.

Within a moment, she had reached the end of the curve in the walkway, and came out onto a wide, circling patio of white marble, lined on both sides by large bushes of fragrant herbs – lemon balm, lavender, and chamomile, among them – with daisies poking their shining faces out of the green.  There was a small covered pavilion, with a bench underneath it; behind it were the trees, and the rest of the gardens, the pathway going on by the bench to continue on through the place.

Elowyn stopped.

Sitting there, right before her, as if he had all the right in the world to be there: mocking her with his presence and taunting her with his indomitable omnipresence, was the dark-clothed figure of the one who styled himself as a vampyre nobleman—

Lord Valdeth of Isinvaele: Jaedin, the Dark Lord of Sytherria.

Elowyn felt herself shaking with rage inside.

It appeared that Shelby had happened upon the vampyre during one of his sojourns through the gardens, and that now Valdeth was showing him some of his more basic magic tricks – at a suggestion from the tall dark figure on the bench, the four-year-old went and retrieved a daisy from the bushes, bringing it to him.  

Valdeth said something to the child, in a low voice that she could not quite hear, gray eyes scanning over the round little features with a curious, gentle intensity that Elowyn had not yet seen within them, and took the little white flower in his hands, cupping it in one palm.  

Then, he covered it with his other hand – made a fluttering movement with his fingers – and opened his hands.

All at once, a host of shimmering butterflies, seemingly made of pure shards of coloured light, burst forth from inside those black-gloved palms, flitting up into the warm morning air.  Delighted, Shelby watched them go, reaching out to touch one with the fingers of one hand.  Valdeth continued to watch the boy, his perfect lips curving…

Elowyn was hardly entranced by the show of power; she had done such tricks herself many a time, since she had been about a year older than Shelby.  

The tactic that her enemy was now using, however, was what her concentration, and anger, had now riveted on – he was trying to insinuate himself into her life, into the circle of those she loved, and she could only guess at _why_…

Stepping forward, abruptly, onto the patio, she reached out to let her own fingertips brush at the wing of one of the butterflies.  It disintegrated into sparkling shards of light as soon as her hand had made contact with it, and Shelby looked up to see the newcomer.  

With a noise of extreme delight, he turned his back on his new 'friend', and ran to her.  The young princess knelt down and caught the adorable little elf-prince in her arms, bringing him up with her as she stood.  With a thoroughly pleased smile, which totally hid the magma-like anger that was bubbling inside of her, she dropped a hearty kiss on the child's rosy cheek.  

Her eyes went straight into Valdeth's, saying, _Oh, no you won't.  Not this time._

_Don't even think about it._

Valdeth stood, rising to his feet, and stared back at her: gray eyes impassive and unreadable.  Meanwhile, Elowyn turned back to Shelby.

"Shelby, you little imp – is _this _where you've been?  I've been out looking for you all this while…I almost called out the guard to look for you – and _then_ where would we have been?  I hope you've not left your nurse in the same state, have you?  Where's Isella?"

Shelby grinned into her face, all the while fidgeting about, as children will.

"She's talking to Riona the Maid, Elli." Most of the younger generation of the original crew had not yet mastered the syllables of Elowyn's name; Elli was the given appellation for her. "I wanted to go outside."

"And so you did, as I see." Elowyn commented.  She glanced back at Valdeth.  Still standing there, watching her.  She turned to Shelby. 

"Sweetness, you shouldn't talk to Lord Valdeth anymore."

The little golden features scrunched up in confusion; green eyes scanned her face.

"Why?" With childlike simplicity.

Elowyn turned so that she could look at Valdeth, secretively.  Shelby followed her gaze. 

"Because…" she whispered, in his ear – but quite loud enough for the vampyre to clearly hear her. "He's the _Tickle Monster_."

Shelby's green eyes – so much like his mother's in hue, but destined to be like his father's in shape – grew wide as saucer-plates, and he stared at the dark figure who stood just a little beyond them.  'Tickle Monster' was a game that his grandfather, ruler of all the elves: Skye's father, and Skye himself played with the children of that family, and Shelby lived in a mixture of mortal fear and anticipation of meeting up with such a creature.

Elowyn, seeing that she had won at least this newest battle, then let the boy back down onto the ground.  "Now, sweet – go run off to my room and look on my writing desk." she told him. "I left you a new storybook there."

"With pictures?"

She smiled.

"Of course – your mother helped me with them.  Now go on…and ask Isella to help you with the big words!"

And Shelby scampered willingly off, leaving Elowyn and her nemesis alone on the pathway together.  She watched him go, remaining motionless until long after his footfalls had faded away; then, she heard the sound of another step being taken, only it was the step of a much larger, booted foot.  Then, she turned around.

"Lord Valdeth," she said, cooing the words sweetly and cheerfully. "Will you take a walk in the gardens with me?  They grow rather picturesque at this time of day."

He inclined his head, making an elegant acknowledgement of her words.

"But of course, my lady."

Elowyn put her arm in his, and they moved off into the gardens together.  Not until they were completely out of sight of everyone else, but not out of _yelling range_, did she grab him by the shirtfront and haul him around, pinning him against a tree.  Still holding on, savagely, to a chunk of his black velvet tunic, she looked straight into his silver eyes; Valdeth looked down at her, way down, with a vastly amused expression on his handsome face.

"The _Tickle Monster_, Princess?" he asked, lightly.

But she wasn't about to be distracted.

"Listen to me, Dark One," she said, glaring up into his eyes.  "I do not yet know what plans, what intent, you have within you that led you to come here, to this place – but know this: I _will _find out what they are, and I will not allow you to bring the people that I love into this.  If there is to be a battle now, it is to be a battle between you and me alone.  Stay _away_ from them."

She released him and turned away, making to return back into the central part of the gardens – but suddenly his gloved hand closed around the upper part of her arm, and she found herself whirled around, roughly, directly into his arms.  They locked around her.

"Now here is a command for _you_, Princess," his cold, deadly voice hissed in her ears. "I do not know what you think you can do to stop me from behaving however I wish, and _doing whatever I want_, or who you think you are that gives you the ability to stand against me – but know this: I will _not_ take no for an answer."

"Let me go."

"_No_."

The arms around her tightened.  Elowyn felt her breath becoming short.

"Yet still you turn away from me, Princess…why?"

She looked deeply into his face.  When her eyes made contact with his, full and without their usual ferocity, she saw the gray depths flicker, momentarily.

"Because your pursuit of my mind – my sanity itself – will give me no quarter."

"Ah, but I _can _give that to you, at least – it _can_ end, Princess…"

A pause."

"_You know what I want_."

Elowyn recalled, in a horrid flash of memory, the feeling of his arms around her, their kiss, an inescapable embrace – her mind was being violated, trespassed upon, and all by this menace who would not leave her, who was within her now forever, who held a part of her within himself, just as she held a part of him within her—

"_NO_!"

With that strangled half-shriek, she violently pushed herself away from him, tripping over a fallen branch – he caught her, his hand moving with lightning speed to grip her arm again, crushing and bruising in its pressure…but, at the same time, saving her from a fall.  Elowyn stared up at him, into his gray eyes, unable to look away.  

Valdeth seemed as if he was hard-pressed to find his breath, and she saw that his face was intense with some seeming furious concentration, his eyes sparking beneath their dark brows.

"Princess, _don't_—" was all he could manage to rasp.

"Leave me!" she shouted at him, and turned.

She turned and ran, and did not look back.

Jaedin was there – he was there, in the flesh, and as adamant about pursuing her as ever, for whatever dark reasons that he had this time.  The fact that he was now surrounded, on all sides, by his fiercest enemies, would not deter him.  And he held an all-defeating card in his hand – if she revealed who he was, he would destroy everything and everyone whom she loved.  One by one, they would fall.  Skye, Odessa-Gadriel, Shelby, Robbie, Sala…all, he would not spare.  

And if she endured his torments, _she_ would fall.

Collapsing in a heap of sunset-hued satin and tulle, Elowyn looked up into the tree branches over her head, her eyes bedazzled by the rays of the bright sun that shone through them.

"Why?" she cried out to the heavens, as if they would part and answer. "_Why_?"

_WHY?_

*                       *                       *__

She had fled him, once again.  And, once again, he would go after her.

Gray eyes, rimmed with intense violet at the outer edges of the irises, lifted from the forest floor and focused on the depths of the woods, piercing past tree and leaf to follow after their quarry: a beautiful young princess whom he desired more than words could tell…

Suddenly, a vision flashed through his mind – momentarily blinding him – sending a jolt of white-hot pain, agony, through his head like the shaft of an arrow.  Jaedin clamped both hands onto his shaven skull and fell to his knees, features twisting and contorting in pain.

The flashback, the memory, came unbidden.

_He saw himself once more in the Black City, looking on the picture of the past as if he was invisible, a ghost, specter, spirit, of his own memories.  Two figures stood before him: both were arrayed in black, and both exuded waves of dark power from their elegant frames…_

_He heard her voice: ringing cold and clear – at first._

_"Jaedin, my Dark Knight…I have been many things to you over these many thousands of years, have I not?"_

_He heard himself answer, guardedly, felt his past wariness and suspicion._

_"My lady has been everything; she knows this."_

_A nod from the beautiful dark one who stood across from him; she moved, took a step._

_"Sovereign, queen, friend, confidante…" Her voice was rhythmic, musical.  She was moving towards him now… "Mother…father…brother, sister…"_

_A pause; and now a pair of flame-lit eyes gazed up into his, seeing and knowing all._

_"But never _lover_."_

_She had drawn close to him, he remembered, even in the midst of the vision: stepping so close that they were more than touching.  Her hands rose from her sides and reached out, fleeting and playful, daring him to react to her; still, those flame-lit eyes never left his, and he never took his gaze of molten silver from hers – no, not until her fingers had actually brushed his cheek…_

_Then he had reacted._

_He had recoiled._

_Instantly, she had seen inside of his soul, had looked upon and recognized his deepest thoughts, had perceived his heart's longings: that intense, all-consuming, deadly poisonous desire that had tainted his being with its venom, causing his heart and hand to betray him…_

_She drew back, lips curling back in a vile, angered sneer: her eyes burned at him.  He could feel their heat on the top of his head as he averted his gaze, twisting his body in an attempt to somehow hide himself, hide the truth that he knew he held within himself, from her.  _

_If only—!_

_Then her expression altered: metamorphosed, like the ever-changing legend, the chimera, that she took her name from.  It became cold, malignant, and knowing – malicious and triumphant.  She had read his thoughts, and he was exposed._

_"But I have not the great sea green eyes that so deeply entrance you, do I, Jaedin – Dark Lord?  I do not have the regard of one proud, willful, and defiant – utterly untamable, full of the newborn Spring…a fair white lily: ringed with cold winter's frost, contemptuous and disdainful, born of light, and sea-lov'd…_do_ I?"_

_He saw himself – felt himself – wince, at those words._

_But she continued: her voice now as hard and icy as winter's most impenetrable ice._

_"Jaedin, Lord of Sytherria…do you serve me with your life, and every breath?"_

_Now, he finally looked up at her: meeting her gaze, head-on, with his._

_"For always, my lady.  You know this as well."_

_Zaschaea sent him her cool, reptilian smile, moving again – circling him, making him feel like a caged panther, trapped in an inescapable tomb with a pit-viper—_

_"Do I?" she asked.  She stopped, coming to stand before him once again; still close, this time, but not as close as before.  Never again… Then, her hand was placed on his chest, directly over his heart.  His pulse beginning to race – with fear, with dread, with anger, or perhaps something more – Jaedin looked into her eyes, lips parting…_

_"Prove it to me then, Jaedin," the Queen hissed, like a snake. "Show me your loyalty."_

_Then, she reached forward – her hand seemed to pass, suddenly, through his clothing, beyond the black velvet and silk, past skin and bone and muscle and tissue, and he screamed: noiselessly in the great white void, as she touched something deep within him—_

_Her slender, white hand – tipped with nails stained a deep black-red – emerged from the depths of his form then, and within its palm, she held something.  Jaedin stared at it, silver eyes widening with dawning realization and horror – what had she just done to him…_

_In her hand, Zaschaea, the Ebony Queen and soon-to-be mistress of the Dark Realm in its entirety, held Jaedin's living power: his life essence._

_Glowing pale, chalky white it was: like a ray of pure starlight severed from its source, and, as he watched in horror and helpless rage, it hardened into tangible form.  Zaschaea then held it out to him: a slender vial of clear glass, hung on a fine chain of shining platinum.  Inside of the vial, his life essence – the inner part of himself that he could not live without, as no creature could – glowed: sometimes brightly, sometimes faint.  His face pale and livid, he looked into the face of his Queen, the entity whom he had served, and had sworn to serve, for all of eternity—_

_Into the face of the one who had just betrayed him._

_And yet she smiled._

_"Go to her, Jaedin," he was told. "Go to her, and seek her out until you have found her.  Then, bring her to me…and do not attempt to deceive me again, my Dark Knight – for now I will see you, and know what you are about, anywhere you go.  This – your life essence contained in this form, this crystal – will serve as our bargaining power.  Go into the White Realm and fetch for me this princess, whom you so desire, and I shall render unto you again your freedom.  Disobey me…and I will end your life at the first sign of rebellion.  I have destroyed many lives before, Jaedin…do not think that I will hesitate to send _you_ into an oblivion of agony."_

_"Can I turn to _no one_…?"_  

Then, the vision ended.  All at once, it was gone.

Slowly, unsteadily and uncertainly, Jaedin rose to his feet: black velvet robes sliding down to drape about his tall, powerful and elegant form once again.  His gaze now turned itself, once more, out into the forest.

_Ah, Zaschaea,_ he thought, as he sent his probe for any traces of dark power in the air out into the wood, _You do not trust me, even after these hundreds of thousands of years…but why should you?  In a moment, I learned that not only can you withhold from me your faith, but that I – as well – cannot trust _you_.  So then, where do we go?  What have we to do now, when we have come to this impasse?  I will not let go my desire, and you cannot wrench it from me…_

And then, the Dark Lord of Sytherria turned crisply, neatly, with his usual cat-like grace – natural-born of his vampyre heritage – and went off, in a swirl of black velvet, into the woods, to seek out, once again, his quarry, the elusive young faery princess, Elowyn.

*                       *                       *

However, neither Jaedin nor Elowyn could have told, at that very moment, as they ventured out into the woods that afternoon, that neither of them would be returning to the gardens of Iordania, or Iordania as a whole, for quite a very long while, after that moment…         

For Destiny – named Fate, if one will – was fast bearing down upon them, and would soon catch them up in its hands, to carry them off to unfathomable places…

*                       *                       *

Run – that was all she could think.  Run.  

Don't stop; just run.

Elowyn, scarcely pausing for even a moment's breath, sped across the wide, clean-swept courtyard of the Elven palace and entered the gigantic cavern that was the royal stables.  Eyes sweeping from left to right, searching, she hurried down the rows of stalls, passing by equine entities more flawless and fair in form than most mortals could imagine.  

At last, she heard a familiar whinny; hope spurring her on, she made her way quickly to the owner of that noise – Orpheus: standing, waiting, in his stall, ears pricking at her arrival.  Tears stinging her eyes and threatening to pour in unstoppable rivulets down her cheeks, Elowyn hastily ducked under the silk rope and came to her old friend's side.  

"Orpheus," she choked, barely able to speak. "Orpheus – oh, let's go – we must go.  We've got to get _out_."

And the bemused Pegasus found himself saddled and readied for a swift ride, and at a very odd time of day, as well; since when had his mistress ridden out in such haste, and during the exact middle of the lunch hour, at that?  But he suffered himself to be led by the reins out of his stall, down the long rows of the stalls, and through the door, into the blazing midday sun.  

Elowyn spared only a split second's time to glance around herself.  The courtyard was awash with life and activity; all around her, she saw guests and the regular denizens of the seaside Elven capital city, going about their daily business, quite without a care in the world.

But she was bent on escape.

*                       *                       *

The sentries at the gate marked the princess's approach and gave the order that it be swung wide for her, to admit her exeunt.  Elowyn rode past them, swift and light as a Spring clinging onto the heels of a breeze, leaving puzzlement and curiosity in her wake.  

Where was the princess riding at this hour?

*                       *                       *

Shortly after her, the dark-cloaked figure of none other than the vampyre lord, Valdeth, galloped up to the gate.  Seeming to be in great haste, he steadied his mount with a confident and controlled hand, then looked up to the sentries.

"The Princess Elowyn!" he called up to them, his dry, elegant voice carrying easily into their ears, even at such a distance. "Which way did she fly?"

They pointed it out to him – having no idea that they were addressing the Dark Lord of Sytherria, and the bane of their world's existence for millenniums past – "That way, milord.  Did she—"

But their questions, however, went unmarked, for Valdeth had set the spurred heels of his boots into his indigo-black stallion's sides as soon as he had been told which way the one he searched for had gone.  And then he himself went thundering out of sight.

All that the sentries could do was turn to one another and shake their heads.

Quite obviously, faery princesses weren't the only ones in strange haste that day…

*                       *                       *

Elowyn had been riding – bareback, at that – since she had been two-years-old; she had gone off on her first gallop, unaided, and much to Vahlada's dismay, when she had been but three years of age.  She was an experienced horsewoman, and knew the country surrounding the palace of Iordania well, having visited there many times.  

But now she paid no attention to the breath-taking, heedless beauty and peerless majesty of the wind-swept coastline of Elvendome, passing by the wide, sweeping arcs of sea and sky with not a single glance.  Riding hard, instead, she passed into the thick forest that marked the ever-changing boundary of the White Realm's enchanted wall…

A brief tingling feeling washed over her as soon as she had gone through the wall, telling her that she had passed the boundary.  She looked around herself, then, reigning Orpheus in to a halt.  The Pegasus stopped and shifted uneasily on all fours, huffing and pawing at the ground: spume forming on his lips and at the bit, as sweat coated his sides.  

Elowyn reached down and bemusedly stroked his flank, eyes gazing out – dazedly, it seemed – at the forest.  It was all strangely quiet, as if everything in that bit of nature had stopped living and turning to stare at her. 

_What are you doing here, Child of the Faeries?_ it seemed to ask, gentle concern in its tone.  _Whom have you fled, and where are you going?_

Putting a hand to her forehead and closing her eyes fast against the torrent of tears that was now more than threatening to come, she slipped down out of the saddle and gathered the loose reins in her clenched hand, holding it so tightly that her knuckles turned bleach-white.

"I am _nothing_…_no one_…" she told it, as she wept. "Leave me be…leave me at peace – why won't you let me go?  Please…just let me go…_let me go_…"

And she began to walk, leading Orpheus behind her.

She had no idea where she was – if she had been in full control of her mind and emotions at that moment, she would have easily been able to ascertain her whereabouts, within a moment…but now, her mind had shut itself down, and obstinately refused to form any coherent thought.  

Mingled emotions were all that came instead – and memories.

She let them tear through her.

Revulsion – loathing, hatred – bewilderment – curiosity – fear – someone's arms around her, someone brushing his velvet lips on her cold brow, someone calling her a name in some language that she did not understand…what was it again – _merron nenein, sahk-ta su aman_?  Was that what he had called her…Dark One, she had called him: servant of the Despised One, offspring of a vile witch, Jaedin of Sytherria…

"_Jaedin_."

His name was haunting on her lips – as if she was pronouncing the syllables of some forbidden spell, summoning the deepest shadows…

But that _was_ what she was doing, wasn't she – calling on the name of the deepest shadows, the master of the darkness?  That was what she was doing; that was what _he was_.  And such a foe could never be evaded, not forever, at that…no matter what she did.

_Jaedin of Sytherria._

_Elowyn of Avalennon._

_Jaedin…and Elowyn._

_Jaedin Elowyn Jaedin Elowyn JAEDIN._

"Am I going mad?"

And a whisper came in her ears: a cold and spiteful woman's voice: _"No, but you will think that it would have been just as well if you _had_, when you have laid eyes on this next aggressor of yours, little princess…"_

_Hissssss._

She tore her eyes from the ground and looked up – too late.  

Without a moment's warning, a huge, tawny body came crashing down out of the tree branches over her head, coming to land in a cat-like crouch, gathering itself together…

Elowyn took a step backwards, her eyes wide with horror and dread, as she looked upon a most terrifying and loathsome creature: an apparition with not one but five heads with the features of lions without manes.  Below those heads, it had long, slender wyvern-necks twisting horribly about, scales rasping and clicking against each other with each movement; its body was the shaggy, dingy frame of a hyena, with a wyvern's long tail flicking and lashing about on the ground behind it.  She had never seen anything so hideous.

The creature – whatever it was – continued to crouch lower to the ground, its elongated silvers of eyes narrowing to focus in on one thing: _her_.  Elowyn continued to back away, hoping to find something – anything – to throw at it, to defend herself with, should it spring at her…which she had no doubt it _would_.  

Suddenly, an awful hissing snarl erupted from the foremost of the monster's five heads, and it craned its neck high up in the air, lips drawing back to reveal its yellowed fangs, which dripped gleaming saliva.  Its nostrils flared, chugging out air, and then it gave a ground-shaking, mind-shattering scream—

And leapt at her.

Elowyn narrowly avoided it, catching Orpheus by the reins and jumping with lightning speed into the saddle.  Veering off to the side, she brought him around; the Pegasus needed no urging – he spread his wings wide and took off at a canter—

A huge clawed paw suddenly swooped down out of nowhere, catching her neatly around the middle.  Elowyn found herself torn out of the saddle, thrown against the monster's claws by the inertia of her movement, and fell violently to the ground.  

Her mind blurred for an instant – but no more.  She scrambled to her feet, facing the circling monster, and screamed – "_Orpheus_!"

Had the creature already taken down her beloved Pegasus?

No – back he came, wickedly sharp hooves pawing at the air, wings beating angry and loud, swooping in low over the monster's head.  Elowyn heard the thud of the Pegasus' hooves on the monster's shoulders, flanks, and heads: she heard it hiss and snarl in antagonized pain, but she was too busy trying to run to pay much attention to it.  Wrapping one arm about her torso – wanting to scream in pain – she scrambled off to one side…but the monster marked her!  It wasn't interested in Orpheus at all – it was only after _her_!  

Elowyn felt a yank at her skirt's hem, and suddenly her feet were dragged out from underneath her, sending her crashing to the ground again.  

Cursing violently in faery, she fought back, but the creature was undeterred.  Orpheus could do all he could in attempt to distract it; she could do all that was in her power to resist it, but the monster was after her blood – her life.  

_Whap!_

The monster's other paw came around and batted her off to one side, and Elowyn was thrown up against a tree root that jutted out above the ground.  She rolled over: blood pounding in her head, her breath labored and painful, whistling in her lungs; her abdomen was screaming with agony, and she could see that the silken bodice of her gown was tattered, hanging in shreds, stained with the blood that was rapidly welling up from the three huge gashes that were in her stomach.  She couldn't get up – she couldn't move.  

The five lion heads appeared in her vision then, hanging over her, and, in her delirium of pain, Elowyn could have sworn that she had seen each of its fives maws twist in a cruel smile—

Then, something totally unexpected – something unbelievable, that even _she_ would have never dreamed of – happened.

"Be off and seek the shadows that spawned you, fell beast!  _She is not yours to take!_"

It was a masculine voice that thundered those words – a voice that was hoarse and rasping with rage – with sheer, unmitigated fury.  

Elowyn saw everything that happened next in a blur: a dark figure suddenly appeared before her, standing in between her and the monster, and it held some sort of razor-edged, deadly-looking weapon in both hands.  The creature – the ranthar – suddenly paused, seeming to have second thoughts about its attack, and then it screamed, loud and long, again, and attacked the figure in front of her instead.  Everything was a whirl of movement and violence – she saw flashes of skin, claws, clothing, teeth, and fur, heard the sounds of mortal combat—

There was a high-pitched, whining sound, that drilled itself into her senses until she thought that her mind would burst—

And then a mind-breaking explosion of blood-red fire.

*                       *                       *

Jaedin turned from the charred, torn, and smoking carcass of what he had always known to be the most fearsome of Dark Realm creatures: the ranthar, a beast created from some of the cruelest and most cunning of species in that world, possessed of a soul that was surely close to, if not _exactly_, that of a demon.  He had never appreciated the keeping of the monsters in his Queen's war mines – but, at the suggestion of another, his opinion had been ignored.

And now he sought to discover just who and what had sent this particular ranthar into the very fringes of the White Realm.  

Before this moment, he had thought this would have been nearly impossible; insinuating himself into the position of a vampyre nobleman, taking the place of the real person, had been hard enough, and required great skill of magic-working…

He knelt and looked on the heap of the beast's twisted remains, dispassionately.

It was one of the dominant male ranthars, he could tell; it had stood at least seventeen feet in height, just seconds before.  A predator truly worthy of being feared.  Unfortunately, the Dark Lord of Sytherria was a _much_ more formidable predator.

But now, without warning, his gray eyes focused abruptly in on something that he had spotted hanging around the creature's neck.  

Reaching forward, but taking care to avoid even slightly touching it – although he wore his habitual gloves of black leather – Jaedin pulled the leather collar off and stood, gazing at it intensely.  A large, blood red crystal, tainted with inky black, hung from its center.

Jaedin's eyes narrowed dangerously.

_Now hear this,_ he said in a low, controlled, but deadly voice, within his mind, to the crystal – and whomever was looking through the other end of it.  _You have given me this task, and I will finish it.  I, and none other._

He let the crystal and leather strap slip through his fingers and fall to the ground.  For a moment, he stared down on it emotionlessly, coldly.  Then he brought his booted heel down on the crystal's broad, flat surface – effectively smashing it.  Having done this, he turned around.

From the limp, pale heap of rags and long, disheveled golden hair that lay on the ground behind him, came a faint sound that almost qualified as a feeble whimper.  Actually – now that Jaedin thought about it, as he lunged towards that fallen figure, belatedly, cursing himself for not having done so sooner – it probably _had_ been a whimper.

Elowyn opened her large sea green eyes, wincing at the light of the sun as it entered them, and she immediately went tense all over, her body stiffening in protest and fear, when she had realized whom it was that held her in his arms.  Jaedin edged her cautiously – with exceeding gentleness and care – into his embrace, and she began to struggle, weakly.

"No…_no_!" she murmured.  But she was fading.

Jaedin placed one hand around the back of her neck, cupping her head in his palm, and stroked his thumb along her hair, an almost tender look softening his sharp and proud features.  

"Shh," he soothed, trying to calm her.  

Even a dark lord knew, having walked many a battlefield in the long centuries of his life, that an injured being must not be allowed to become frantic.  That would speed unconsciousness, and, perhaps, coma – or death.  

_And she must not be allowed to die.  Yet,_ was his grim and slightly sadistic thought.          

"Shh," he said again, and continued to stroke his fingers along her hair.  

Elowyn gazed up at him with disoriented and terror-filled eyes for a moment longer, and then she gave a soft, peculiar little sigh – and was motionless in his arms.  Of course, she still lived, and _would_ live on for a while longer, if he and his orders had anything to do with it – but now he had to move swiftly.  Ranthars were chiefly employed by the warlords of the Dark Realm because of their brutality and intelligence, and also because the wounds that they inflicted on their victims would, within a matter of minutes, quickly become septic, and painfully infected.

Jaedin didn't know why the Queen had sent this creature after Elowyn; she didn't trust him, in the matter of the princess of prophecy, he already knew, but he had thought that _killing_ the child wasn't even remotely in the plans…

_A distraction, perhaps?  To detain you whilst she goes about some other diabolical plot of hers, you think?_

He shook his head, and stood, bringing Elowyn up with him.  She settled easily into his arms, fitting against him as if she was made to be there…

Jaedin smiled mordantly to himself at that thought.

_Such had always been my thought, but she will not accept it, I fear…_

Now he glanced over, into the trees.  

The princess's Pegasus stood there, watching him with its uncannily intelligent, seemingly all-knowing eyes, and Jaedin quickly took note of how its ears had flattened back onto the crown of its head.  Not too friendly then, he observed.

And rightly so.

Still…

"Look, you," he said, stepping around various undergrowth, fallen logs, and the sort: approaching both the irate Pegasus and his own mount, which he had left behind him directly before hurtling to Elowyn's rescue, unwilling to let her be killed when he knew that that was not what he had been commanded to do concerning her.  

He looked straight into the eyes of the Pegasus – Orpheus, he seemed to recall, was its name – and spoke slowly and authoritatively.

"I find the need to procure aid for your young mistress here rather pressing, and then, afterwards, I _really_ don't have any desire to spend my time arguing with a _horse_."

The Pegasus' ears flattened even more upon hearing those words, and it lowered its head, beginning to bare its teeth at him.  Unimpressed and totally unfazed, Jaedin let his lips tighten and went to mount his own stallion, bringing Elowyn into the saddle with him as easily as he might a lightly packed rucksack.  Then he glanced back at the Pegasus again.

"Come along, if you wish…but _she's_ coming with _me_."

And with that, he rode off into the waning afternoon light, heading for the magic wall once again.  One never emerged from the White Realm in the exact same place as one had gone in, it was well known, and so he had no real idea of where he would end up once he had passed through that boundary.  He wouldn't, in all likeliness, be very near Iordania again.

_Just as well,_ he thought, as he urged his mount into a gentle canter.  _They seemed like to soon become suspicious of Lord Valdeth of Isinvaele anyway…     _

Hoof beats from behind him served to inform Jaedin that Orpheus was following, and closely at that.  Somehow, he felt, the Pegasus seemed to inherently know of just who and what his young mistress's companion was.  

And Jaedin didn't appreciate getting an attitude from a _horse_.  

Meanwhile, Elowyn was still and pale, her head resting against his chest, half buried in his full-cut tunic, a warm and gentle pressure against his skin.  

Jaedin glanced at her speculatively.  

"What will we find of each other this time, Princess?" he asked her, murmuring to her unconscious form. 

_Will I finally learn of just what it is that allows you to elude me, to keep me at bay, unable to touch your heart?  Will you at last give in to the knowledge that you long to discover me – to truly know me?_

"_Merron nenein – sahk-ta su aman._"

_One within me – mistress and only lover of my inner self._

_My soul._

*                       *                       *__


	21. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen –

A Conversation of the Light and Dark

_Wake, Princess._

Elowyn started from her sleep, with a violent tremor of her entire body.  Returning to consciousness, she became aware of sight, sound, smell, and feeling again.  

She was lying on an uneven but soft and springy surface of some sort, with something that felt like a coverlet of heavy velvet drawn over her.  The air that was now touching upon her bare collarbones, throat, arms, and face was cool and slightly moist – the air of nighttime, with a fragrance that reminded her of pine and dew.  Around her, as she remained lying still, on her back, with both her eyes closed, she could hear a few noises.  There was a fire crackling somewhere nearby, and, her sharp faery ears detected, however faintly, the music of crickets chirping; an owl making its solitary cry.

And she heard breathing.

All at once, reality and memory rushed back to her.  She had run from the palace – from Iordania and the vampyre nobleman, Lord Valdeth – and galloped into the woods with Orpheus; a monster had attacked her there, a horrible creature with five lion-like heads and the whipping, barbed tail of a wyvern.  And then – and then he had rescued her!  

_Jaedin._

Her eyes flew wide open.

The scenery that she saw about her was nothing like the forest that she had last seen; no, this place where she lay, on a makeshift bed of wild heather boughs, was anything _but_ the wide-open, tree-filled forest.  This was a cavern: a small cave of some sort, apparently.  

Her 'bed' had been placed somewhere near the back of it, against the craggy stone wall, allowing her to look out across the rest of the space.  Indeed, there _was_ a fire that had been built in the middle of the surprisingly even, sandy floor, and a little more than twenty feet to the front of her was the cave's opening, a perfect round door through which she could catch a glimpse of the night sky, with the moon and stars shining brightly in its expanse.  

It was late at night.

Her eyes, however, were soon wrested from their perusal of the panorama just outside of the stone cell that she was now inside of, for she had – at last – marked the shadowy, cloaked figure who had was sitting before the fire, crouching like a large predatory cat of some sort.  The hood of the cloak, which was gray, had been drawn over its wearer's head, but Elowyn knew, without a doubt, whose face and features lay just beneath its shelter.

_But where were they?  Where had he brought her to, and why?  Why had he rescued her from the horrific monster – the ranthar – and then brought her here?  _

_Didn't he desire her dead…?_

_No._

She sat up, feeling dazed and lightheaded.

"Valdeth…" she murmured.

Instantly, the cloaked head turned towards her, unnervingly fast; she saw the gleam of silvery eyes in the firelight, as it glanced off of them.  She shuddered, recoiling.

The figure stood, moving slowly, elegantly, and began to walk towards her.

"I am here, my lady…"

His dry, cultured voice, that had captivated so many, drifted to her out of the darkness, giving her the sensation that he was right there, next to her, even though her eyes told her that he was still several feet away.  Elowyn restrained herself from shrinking back…_in fear_.

Instead, she spoke.

"Where are we…where have you brought me to…why is it so dark?"

"Because…as _you_ may well recall, Princess…_I do not much like the light_."

He had revealed himself – it _was_ true then!

"So it _is_ you," she bit back, her voice full of ice and loathing. "You admit it."

Just then, a terrible wave of pain assailed her, seeming to emanate from the back and side of her head.  Elowyn put up a hand to the source of the pain, without thinking, nearly doubling over when the pain increased. 

Vaguely – only just – she sensed that he had suddenly moved much more quickly, and had taken a seat beside her on the low makeshift bed.  The instant that she felt his strong, living warmth beside her, his form that radiated power in tightly coiled dark waves: fitting up against hers seamlessly, she wanted to shy away, to distance herself from him.  But there was no evading him this time, as before…she simply couldn't move back.

Cool, deft fingertips brushed against her skin: ungloved, she realized, for the first time.  She closed her eyes, willing the pain to go away, quiet and still, as Jaedin – hoodless now – looked down upon his beautiful young charge, assessing the bandage that he himself had placed on her head, earlier that day.  

He had ridden past the boundary of the White Realm once again, crossing back into the mortal world, and found that they were now in a part of Elvendome that he had never before visited.  It seemed to be sparsely inhabited, and this was an advantage for him.  He wouldn't have to continually concern himself with the thought of her friends coming along after her.  

After _him_.

Having taken this into thought, he rode on – Elowyn's Pegasus following close behind the entire time – until, several hours later, he had found a satisfactory refuge: a small cave that was located on a stony hillside, a narrow pathway leading up to its mouth.  There, he had employed his knowledge of battle wounds and their treatments to nurse the injured princess.  

Apparently, the ranthar had done most of the damage, but not all.  The princess had three huge, long gashes across her torso and chest, from when the creature had swiped her out of the saddle, and several more smaller – but no less painful, he had ascertained – cuts and bruises.  Her arm had been badly twisted under her in her fall, but nothing had been broken; more than four of her ribs, however, had been cracked, and come dangerously close to puncturing one of her lungs.  Fortunately, Jaedin knew more than a _little_ about tending to various wounds…

Now, he sought to check on the convalescence of the swollen knot that was on the back of her head, just behind her right ear.  It had been bleeding profusely when he had first taken her into his arms, but then, most head-wounds will do that, he knew.  

Gently, so as not to disturb the healing skin, he lifted away the wrapping and glanced over the damage.  Appearing to be satisfied then, he turned briefly aside and began to sort through something that was lying at the foot of the bed, on the ground.

Elowyn watched him, her eyes careful and wary.

_Why had he rescued her…_

At length, he turned back towards her again, and she shrank back, almost involuntarily: driven by her immense fear and hatred of the entity that she saw before her.  Jaedin did not react.  Now was not the time to begin another fiery but strangely exhilarating battle of the wits with her; he could not hazard furthering her injuries, nor _would_ he.  

And so, without comment or change of expression, he leaned forward again and brushed his fingertips over the wound, applying both the healing salve that he had made and his own regenerating magic.  Elowyn closed her eyes as he did this, savoring the vanishing of the dull pain that had been throbbing in her head, and, at the same time, wondering – _How is it that something so cruel could be this gentle, this deft…?_

She had had such a thought before.

Recalling that made her open her eyes.  

Jaedin finished replacing the bandage and drew back from her, but only enough to look into her eyes.  They sparkled and glowed, like gems of sea-jade, even in the low firelight…

"It _is_ you," she whispered, meeting his gaze directly.

"Once again, Princess," he said, drawling the words nonchalantly and calmly, in response to her question, "You have managed to shed _light_ on a _dark_ _situation_."

And with that, he made a slight, airy gesture of one elegant, long, ungloved hand: the curves and lines of its muscles, skin, and ligaments catching the firelight and shadow.  

Immediately, the fire burst into a hearty roar, allowing them to see one another by full light at last – clearly.  They were silent, gazing into one another's eyes for a moment: cold, feminine fury on Elowyn's part, darker and more indescribable emotion on Jaedin's.  Finally, she spoke.

"What made you come here – back to me – again, Dark One?"

The corners of his full lips lifted, ever so slightly, in a show of wry, almost rueful amusement, but she couldn't decide at what.  She did realize, however, that it made the scar on his upper lip seem more visible, and it reminded her that he – no matter what he looked like; no matter if he _looked_ as if he was around her own age – was the denizen of millenniums before her time, and the master of evil beyond her comprehension.  

_How carefully, then, must you tread, Elowyn…_

All Jaedin made in reply to her question was a simple, almost forthright answer.  Pulling her blanket – which, she belatedly marked, was in reality his cloak of black velvet – up around her body, shielding her from the night's chill air, he looked at her and replied, "The same thing made me follow you here that made me come to find you the first time, Princess.  Know it as a _command_ that I could not let go unheeded, if you wish – know it as _destiny_, if that is what you want.  It could be many things…"

He stood, looming over her at his great height, and Elowyn followed him with her gaze.  She had just noticed, also, that her gown was gone – evidently, it had been so torn up and such an inhibition to treating her, that he had seen fit to have done with it.  Now, she wore a nightgown-like white shift; it appeared that he had transformed her ruined apparel into that.  There was a peculiar tightness around her upper torso, and one that did not come from a corset…more bandages, to protect and heal the wounds from the ranthar.  

It was almost past believing.  He – the Dark Lord of Sytherria, her veritable sworn enemy – had rescued her from a monster…and then tended to her wounds.

_This, from the one whom I thought would have left me to die…_

"Why?" she whispered.

The liquid mercury eyes gazed down at her: speculative and unreadable, otherwise.

"I do not desire for anyone else to have this pleasure," he said, in a low voice; she was reminded of its edge of a vicious, hissing snarl and subsided slightly. "I will not allow anyone else to _take_ you – to imprison and hold you, as _I_ have…"

_His words said more than just that…_

"Now…rest; get some sleep, my Sea-Jade." She felt his fingers come down, and gently stroke through her hair, as those of a parent's might with that of their child.  But Jaedin was no parent of hers, and he was far from friend or kin, as well.  Elowyn put her hand up and circled her fingers around his wrist, making it evident that she wished for him to _stop_.  Still, the silvery eyes bent their unchanging regard on her. "We have a long journey to make on the morrow – a road that we must not tarry on…" he told her, softly.

Elowyn felt breathless: sick with dread.

"Whither to?" she asked.

A pause.

"The Black City, Fair One.  Sleep…"

_The Black City…to his Queen!  No – no – I _will not_ go there!  No, you cannot make me – you cannot do this!  NO…  _

But the deep, kind black void of unconsciousness claimed her, and she knew no more.

*                       *                       *

Hours later, Elowyn awakened again: slitting her eyes very carefully open and scanning her surroundings.  Through the mouth of the cave, she saw the snatch of sky and scenery, and the sapphire-blue hue of the sky, almost entirely bereft of stars, told her that dawn was fast approaching.  _Dawn…morning…daylight._

She gave a great, shuddering sigh then.

This morn would be the beginning of yet another horror for her, if she did not escape.  And she couldn't; her dark captor would not allow her to elude him a second time…

_Wait._

_Dawn…morning…_

_Daylight._

Jaedin was a vampyre.

He had already spent several days out in the sun – if she recalled it aright, vampyres could not stand more than three days' exposure to the daylight; hence, they were nocturnal.

_And therefore, he could not now follow her with any safety to himself, were she to make a bid for her escape!_

She hadn't any idea of where she was; all she could tell, at that moment, was that they were no longer in the White Realm.  But this mattered little.  She had long been adventuring out in the wide world, with not a map or compass to guide her footsteps, and sojourning in unknown places was hardly a frightening concept to her.  Wherever she was, she would simply move as quickly and inconspicuously as she could, and make all attempts to soon find some of her comrades.

But – she must escape now.  

One glance around the cave showed her where her companion slept.  He was sitting up, leaning against the wall of the cave, near its entrance.  She would have to go past him in order to get out…but she could do it.  She would – she _had_ to, as there was no possible other way for her to escape.  And she could hardly make herself vanish into thin air.  Such a talent was indeed known to the faeries, but she – in her seventeen years – had not yet mastered it.

Stealthily, she got up.

He slept deeply, when he did _indeed_ sleep, she remembered.  That first meeting in the Tower…he had already been awake for a while, by the time that she had made her attempt to get out of the bed, she had decided, and nothing she had done before then – no movement or noise from her – could have awakened him.  He had, in all likeliness, been without rest for some time while transporting her back to his realm with him, and now…

Her progress went unmarked.  Elowyn brought the cloak along with her and pulled it on around her shoulders.  

It was noticeably long and heavy on her, having been made for a much taller, stronger person – but it would have to do.  She was not just about to go running off through whatever countryside she was now in, wearing nothing but some sort of nightgown.  Yes, her apparel was acceptable enough, but a _nightgown_…?

The cloak had his scent in it.

She inhaled it every time she took a breath: deep, powerful yet subtle, tinged with dark spices and incenses that she could only name a few of.  It reminded her of him as a dragon, when he had taken that form: great, black, and imposing, a living embodiment of the shadows.

How she strove to clear _that_ from her mind!

Then, with a deep breath: mentally preparing herself, she set her shoulders and looked to the cave's mouth.  Once again, she was going to escape the Dark Lord of Sytherria, and they would not meet up again unless she had her friends with her…

_But you must ask yourself, Elowyn: what are your feelings of that, exactly?  Do you want to find him again…for him to find you again?  What might come then…_

She shook her head, gazing without emotion at the cloaked figure of her companion.

That was yet another thought that she refused to linger upon.

And so, without another moment's pause, the young faery princess slipped out of the shadowy cavern that she had spent the night in, with her nemesis to guard her, and stepped into the cool morning.  The chill air bit her bare feet, whistling about the white silk of her gown, and she drew her pilfered cloak more closely about her, eyes casting about her for a few seconds.  Then, she heard a surprising and thoroughly unexpected noise – a soft, breathy nicker.

"_Orpheus_!" she exclaimed, in an incredulous, overjoyed whisper.

She flew down the narrow pathway that led up to the cave, which was situated halfway up a rocky hillside, and ran to her old friend, pulling his head down by the bridle and caressing his large, horse-like face with undisguised happiness.  He had followed her through peril and toil, yet again!

Mounting up quickly then, she murmured to the Pegasus, who swiveled his ears back to hear her: "Let's go – the gorgon sleeps, but I do not know for how long!  _Off_ with us."

The Pegasus again needed no urging: he had been distrustful enough of the dark figure who had carried off his young mistress, and now it was a delight indeed for him to leave the memory of that far behind.  He spread his wings and took off at a gentle canter, his hooves making no noise on the dewy green grass—

And within moments, the princess and her winged companion had soared off into the dawn.

Jaedin, and whatever he had meant for her, was left far behind.

_For now,_ was her grimly realistic thought.

_Only for the moment._

*                       *                       *

A/N: And now, a special note from the authoress, and everyone's favorite Dark Lord…

(The scene which the reader now "sees" before himself/herself – come on now, work with me; _thank you_ – is one of an empty, Broadway-esque stage.  And coming out of the wings to approach the microphone set up in its exact center is none other than Kates, dressed in the elaborate golden ballgown from _Once Upon A Time_, borrowed from the oh-so-kind Odessa-Gadriel, and Jaedin, in his typical black velvet tunic, breeches, and cloak.  Kates looks very pleased with herself.)

Kates: Ladies and gentlemen, enchanters and enchantresses, sorcerers, erstwhile authors and authoresses, fans and fellow friends, thank you for being here tonight.  It is an honour to have had you along, thus far, on our journey through adventure, peril, and word-fencing.  *grins*

Jaedin:  However, now, if we may, the Authoress and I would like to take a brief measure of five minutes to do a favor, for a dear friend—

Kates: **DarkSlytherinAngel**, this is for you.

Jaedin: In a fantasy world where the characters speak with nearly as much scathing sarcasm and humor as I do—

Kates: (in an undertone) Although I think that would be hard to do for anybody.

Jaedin: (cuts off to glare at her shortly) And princes go running around picking up girls off of the forest floor…

Kates: While the heroine steadfastly behaves in a manner that she prefers, while ignoring the sanctions and trammels of society—

Jaedin: (low voice) Good word.  Lord of the Rings-esque.

Kates: (winks at him) I try. (normal voice) While the authoress of it all gives vague, entrancing hints of even more adventure, romance, and humor to come in the future, you will find the tale of Christina.  This story is marvelous – the way that the characters talk is a refreshing blend of both a fantasy world and the modern vernacular; the setting is almost reminiscent of Lord of the Rings with all the mentions of forests and trees, and such, and if you at all like my alter-ego, Princess Elowyn, of this story—

Jaedin: And I do – I really do…

Kates: (blushing) Jay…knock it off…not on stage, there's too many people waiting for us to finish…  Criminy.  Where was I now?  Oh yes…if you like Elowyn at all, you'll like Christina just as much.  She is AWESOME.  For lack of a better word.  Anyways, this story is great, and Jaedin and I have both intensely enjoyed reading it.  So give it a whirl!  

Jaedin: This has been an official announcement by the protagonists of _True Hate and True Love_ – a favor done for **DarkSlytherinAngel** by two of her friends – yes, _friends_, I _can_ be nice…when I _want_ to – and fans.  Until the next chapter, my friends…

Kates:  And never underestimate the importance of the little blue button at the bottom of the screen!  R&R…

(They walk off, and the stage goes to dark.  Next chapter, then…)  @{--------------------------    


	22. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen –

Night, and Yet We Do Not Sleep__

            

It was late at night, even in the ever-living city of the faeries: Avalennon.  However, though this was true, a shimmering glow could be seen emitting from the stained-glass windows of the Chamber of Meeting, telling of the presence of someone within.  

The Chamber of Meeting – a tall, rounded structure amidst the other towers and pinnacles of the legendary fortress – was where the Lord Orandor and, often, the Lady Vahlada went to correspond with their most trusted and important associates.  Tonight, only Orandor himself was present: he stood in a ring of three raised platforms, facing inwards to the two seemingly ghostly, almost transparent figures that were before him.  

A secret council was ensuing among the three of them.

"…She has gone, and he after her.  Only too late have I concluded, now that things have gone beyond my power to help, that the Lord Valdeth was indeed _far_ from what he had named himself to be.  He was no friend, and certainly should have never been trusted," the youngest and tallest of the trio finished saying.

Orandor looked at his friend – Prince Skye of the Elves – with lines of sympathy and tired, sad wisdom drawn on his noble face: reflected in the depths of his storm-gray eyes.

"Do not be over hard on yourself, Skye," he told the distraught Elven prince. "You could not have foreseen this, and it is not of your fault.  To know that Elowyn is now safe with her friends, somewhere within your realm of Elvendome, is enough for us."

"I _should_ have foreseen it." Skye said, vehemently: deeply grieved.

The third figure – that of Orandor's brother, Brendan – made a calming gesture towards Skye.  "The Dark Lord works in more ways than one, my friend," the sandy-haired, ascetic faery agent of espionage said, grimly. "If he does not use force, he employs deception; if not deception, flattery…and the list of his abilities goes on.  Orandor is right, as he is often _wont_ to be,"—wryly—"We must accept the fact that, once again, the game has changed.  Elowyn arrived late this past night, and we have not seen any sign of her pursuer: the vampyre Lord Valdeth, whom we now know to be Jaedin of Sytherria."

"Do not say his name," Orandor commanded, in a low but authoritative voice. "For we do not know what even _that_ may be able to do for him."

The figures of the three powerful rulers lapsed into silence, and then Orandor posed a question to his brother.

"You say that she arrived by night?"

Brendan nodded.  

"With Orpheus.  The castle where we are staying is only a hunting lodge, employed by the Elven lords in a different time, and small, in comparison to other royal residences; there is nothing that goes on there in one part of the house that each of us is unaware of, because of this.  Robbie and Sala had rooms next to one another, and mine was across the corridor from theirs."

He paused.

"None of us, in our sleep, marked the approaching wing beats of the Pegasus, and then all at once, I heard Elowyn's name said, and quite loudly, by both Robbie and Sala.  She had gotten into the house, found and awakened the both of them.  By the time that I reached them, we were all widely awake; and for fear that he had followed her, though vampyres will rarely travel by daylight, we made careful concealment of our presence there.  She then told us all, of the Lord Valdeth, who had come as a guest to the Embassy Ball at Iordania; of how he had revealed himself to be her nemesis, the Dark Lord, who had taken her captive in order to bring her to his Queen, and of how she had made her escape from him.  Orandor…"

The owner of that name turned his full gaze upon his brother, sensing that something of extreme gravity was about to be said.

Brendan was silent for a moment. 

Then – "She said that he had rescued her from a fell monster of the Dark Realm – a five-headed ranthar.  He rescued her, although she does not know why."

Orandor frowned, his dark curving eyebrows coming to meet over the bridge of his nose.  Beside them, Skye could be seen doing the same.  There was an air of puzzlement between the three of them.  

"It is truly strange…" Orandor mused. "Why would a Dark Lord take such pains to ensure the safety of a faery princess, whom he had sworn to see the end of?"

"Why _indeed_ – especially in light of the fact that the creature, which might have made an end of her, was in stark reality of his own affiliation?" Skye added.

Brendan shook his head, offering no explanations – for he couldn't.

"Apparently, my friends," he said, "There is more to this game of the Dark Lord's than what we have yet seen.  But…regardless of this…Elowyn _must_ be protected: at all costs."

"So she must," was the echoed sentiment of his two companions.

"What, then, is there for us to do _now_?" Skye inquired.

Orandor was pensive and silent for a moment, deep in thought.  Finally, he spoke, and they hastened to pay close and rapt attention to his words.  

"Brendan, you shall keep Elowyn and her two companions with you, at your side, wherever you now go; it does not matter where that is, as long as you keep moving.  Do not stop long, at any time, and do not bring much attention down upon yourselves."

"As a spy, I have long been unable to do just _that_." was Brendan's dry rejoinder.

To Skye, "Have your sentries about the kingdom keep watch for any hint of the dark one's presence.  The very earth groans at his approach, and the birds and the beasts fly in terror before him.  _That_ is how you will know of his coming, if indeed he chooses to appear again."

Skye nodded.

"The lands of Elvendome will be sealed against his wiles, I give you my solemn word."

Orandor smiled: half grimly and half sadly. 

"I know, Skye; you have my faith."

"And what will the White Realm do now?" Brendan then asked.

His brother made a slight shrugging movement of his shoulders. 

"It appears, brother, that we have_ little_ that we _can_ do – little, but wait, hope, and pray.  We will do our utmost to make certain that the child of prophecy, Elowyn, is kept safe from the hands of the Dark Lord, who would do all that he could to ensnare her.  From what I can tell, there is more to his plans than perhaps even _his Queen_ is yet aware of…"

Silence.

"We must all tread carefully now."

"These are dangerous times that we now live," concluded Skye, cryptically.

And, moments later, the lights in the stained-glass windows went out, and the night over Avalennon was silent and peaceful once again.  

*                       *                       *

However, little did Orandor, Brendan, and Skye know, that far away – hunched over an opal-like glass, its glowing light reflected in his silvery eyes – a dark-cloaked figure had heard, and marked, their conversation.  As it ended, he made a gesture, and the light in the glass went out, as if extinguished.  

Then, stowing it somewhere in the depths of his shadowy robes, the figure stood up: straightening slowly, so that the cramped muscles in his back and shoulders would not give him too much agony.  Narrowing his eyes until they became mere glittering slits in his face, he raised one hand to carefully massage the tight ligaments in his neck and gazed up at the moon, as it peeked through the dark tree branches overhead at him.

_So,_ was his sardonic thought, _You seek to escape me in the void of Elvendome, Princess; you think to disappear into the encircling arms of your friends._

And, with that, Jaedin took a step away from the place where he had been sitting, moments before, and raised his arms from his sides, until they were stretched out fully on either side of him – gauging the room he had around himself.  As he formed the words of the transformation spell in his mind, recalling their exact syllables and nuances of expression and tone, he concentrated his mind on the dim outline of a picture that he had begun to call up within his memory as well…

The picture cleared, and he saw her face: the beautiful, peerless face that reminded him so much of a white lily, sprung anew in the depths of a cold mountain forest, blooming as the snows began to melt and recede around it.  She slept, seeming comforted and calm, as he had never seen her.  No, she had never bent such a kind gaze on _him_.

_But she would._

If he had to take everything that she knew and loved away from her, never to be returned; if he had to break the entire balance of the world itself, in order to have what he wished, then he would do it.  The ultimate power – the ultimate triumph, peerless consummation of everything that he knew he desired – he _would_ have it.

A black whirlwind began to come up around him, deafening in the night; yet he could hear no noise of it, for his mind had focused elsewhere.

_Elowyn…_

_You are mine._

*                       *                       *

Miles and miles away, but in the same stretch of forest – which covered a good deal of Elvendome – Elowyn slept peacefully, with Sala dreaming across the room from her.  Through the open door between the rooms came the sounds of Robbie stirring in his bed every so often.  Across the hall, Brendan also slept, as unaware of reality as any of them.

But then Elowyn awoke.

It hadn't been a nightmare that had caused her to open her eyes this time, oddly enough.  Her sleep had long been interrupted by visions, horrible scenes of memories and thoughts that had been engrained into her mind, since her return to her friends and family…but tonight she had had no nightmare.  She just suddenly didn't feel like sleeping.

She sat up, taking care to make her movements as silent as possible, to avoid waking Sala or Robbie.  Both of her friends had been quite adamant about being at her side every possible moment, to protect, cheer, and reassure her – but she had no wish to make them endure any more concern than was absolutely necessary.  

Besides, if she felt she suddenly had the urge to be awake at this hour of the night, it didn't _have_ to be because of something horrid and dark…

Now she cast a glance across the room, to Sala: the tall, dark-haired faery slept as deeply as the moment before, undisturbed.  

Elowyn smiled a bit.  

How often, when they had been younger, had she and Robbie teased Sala about her nonexistent snoring problem, just to have a laugh in the morning…?  And what happy memories being with them now brought to her…

Still, she felt ill at ease, sitting up in bed.  

She wanted something more.

Cautiously, she pushed back the coverlet and sheets, laying them aside, and eased her legs off of the bed: the stone floor cold and hard against the soles of her bare feet.  A shiver instantly ran up through her upon the contact and she rubbed her upper arms.  Through the nearby window, she could see the clear stream of moonlight, shining down onto the floor and making a perfect rectangle there.  She stood, totally getting out of bed, and went to that window.

The sight that met her eyes was a tranquil and calming one.  

Below her, she saw the grounds of the small estate that she and her friends were staying in, for the time being, and beyond them was the forest and the rugged scenery of Elvendome: resplendent with mountains, grasslands, and stretches of wide open sky.  If she had had the window open, she knew that she would have smelled the sharp, clean fragrance of the woods, with a faint tinge of briny sea air beneath it. 

Clouds were gathering the distance now, she saw: rolling, enormous clouds full of volume and weight.  Rain clouds.  

When she strained her ears, she could already hear – vaguely – the beginning rumbles of thunder from within those clouds.  There was a low, but quite visible flicker of light from in those clouds – lightning.  

It was going to storm.

The prospect of this – of a thunderstorm – gave her cause for optimism.  If she was going to be awake at this time of night, by herself, then at least the approaching storm would give her something to occupy herself with observing.  

Quickly scooping her blue silk wrap up from the end of her bed, where she had left it before diving beneath the covers, Elowyn pulled it on over her long, lace-edged white nightgown and pushed her feet into her slippers, welcoming the feel of the cool satin against her bare feet.  Then, quiet and careful as a shadow, she tiptoed across the room and stepped out into the hallway beyond it, closing the door behind herself.  

The manor was very dark and very quiet at night.  She hadn't really paid that much attention to its foreboding silence upon her arrival, being too anxious in her quest to find her friends to really notice it…but now, it seemed blank and unfamiliar.  

There was light here and there: shreds of illumination among the shadows, from the windows that lined the corridor, and she went towards them, one hand placed on the wall to run along it and keep her path straight, just in case.  Every once in a while, she heard more faint rumblings of thunder, as the storm came closer and closer, and brief flashes of lightning seared into the darkness through the windows.  

A sense of premonition came over her then, and she stopped, frowning a bit as she bit her bottom lip, glancing about herself quickly.

_Perhaps this isn't a good idea, Elowyn,_ she thought to herself.  _You're opening yourself to thoughts of fear, to figments of your own imagination.  When you think that something is there, you really _are_ bound to see it, eventually…_

Tap, tap, tap.

She stopped dead.

Then, nothing but silence.  Elowyn narrowed her eyes, peering into the darkness.

Nothing.

Tap, tap, tap.  Tap, tap – _creak_.

Now icy trills were running up and down her back.

"Stop it," she muttered, fiercely, to the shadows. "Stop it _now_."

There was nothing there, she knew.  There was no one inside of the manor but her uncle, herself, and her two friends.  They had placed special, unbreakable symbols up around the house, binding them with their powers of magic and enchantment: no one, nothing, would be able to enter that place, unless they so desired.

_Nothing, unless it was a specter – a wraith of her own…_

Elowyn started, and whirled around.

Was that a faint chuckle that she had just heard from in the shadows behind her?

Thunder rumbled again.  Now her fear turned, once again, into something else.  Anger.  Sea green eyes flashing, Elowyn stepped away from the wall and began to walk down the corridor again: faster, this time, her slippers making faint tapping sounds on the stone floor.  _Tap, tap, tap,_ they went.  Light, and fast, clipping along.

But their sound was not the much heavier, more resonant clicking that she heard coming from up ahead of her.  

_Boots made that kind of noise, on stone floors…_

Elowyn noticed that she was coming to the end of another long corridor, having turned right off of the one that she had originally been in.  At its end, she saw that two illuminating wall sconces had been left burning.  Their flames leapt and twisted within their metal cages, casting dancing shadows on the walls, making it seem as if the air itself was moving.  

Her eyes narrowed, again, in concentration and suspicion: what had caused those sconces to light themselves again?  She and her friends had made certain that all the lights had been put out…

_Boom!_  

A huge, startling crack of thunder echoed in the sky above the manor, causing the stone floor to shake, the air to vibrate—  

The same exact moment, a flash of lightning lit the air, and the sound of booted footsteps seemed to be coming from directly in front of her—

Suddenly – a dark-clothed figure stepped out of the shadows beneath a doorway at the end of the hall: the shiny, full-cut tail of his coat snapping and swirling about his form-fitting leather suit, the firelight glancing off the back of his head, upon his smoothly shaven scalp—

Turning right to quickly skirt the corner of the wall, and disappear out of her sight!

Elowyn slammed herself to a halt.

_JAEDIN! _she called out, furious and imperative, within her mind.

All she met, in that realm, was – for a moment – complete and utter silence.  Then, from the great black void, a stirring of the darkness: a presence coming to meet her, approaching her.  Recognizing, acknowledging, knowing her.

_Well met, Princess,_ his voice said, in her head.

She struggled to grasp onto it, to lock onto him; he was fighting her, pushing her away, refusing to allow her a single brush against him.

Noiseless battling; then—

_Where are you?_ he asked.  Simply, and matter-of-fact, as if he were merely an inquisitive bystander, and not her worst enemy: her vile nemesis.

Elowyn drew back, icy and defensive.

_I'll _never_ tell you! _she snarled at him.

An elegant, mellifluous laugh: condescending and arrogant, and cold.

_What – do you think that _that_ will keep me from finding you out, my Sea-Jade?  I am already very close, am I not?  I am very close, and _you_ fear that I will soon find you.  You can't keep me out forever, fairest one – you already know that your shield against me has begun to crack, and it only takes a very little for me to get inside of you, to where you can't ever escape me._

_You'll never have me that way!_

Thoughtfully, with immense self-assuredness – she could just picture his smirk now: _Oh, I would not be so certain of that, sweet.  You've already let me in, and I know now that you_ do_, in some degree, to some measure, desire _me_ as much as _I_ desire _you_._

_Never.  I let you hypnotize me; mesmerize me into thinking as you wanted me to, for that one moment.  Now I will never permit you to do it again.  I only desire _one_ thing, Dark Lord._

A dark, deadly tone creeping into his mind-voice, poisoning it with icy dangerousness, he asked her, _And what is that, Princess of the Faeries?_

_To be rid of _you_ – now get out of my mind!_

And with that, she both literally and mentally flung out her hands, shoving him away from her.  Then, in the next instant, her eyes flew open and she found herself standing, cold and trembling, utterly exhausted, in the middle of the empty hallway: the sconces still burning brightly on the wall.  Swaying unsteadily on her feet, her strength drained from that single encounter, she reached out for the wall, glad to have its support.

Then, she turned so that she was facing out into the corridor, her back resting against the stones, and stared off into space: her sea green gaze coming to rest on a tapestry that hung nearby, its gold threads glittering in the firelight.  

Her thoughts were floundering to recover themselves.

Oh yes indeed – the Dark Lord still had a plan for her.  She had evaded him for the second time, escaping when he had been right there to prevent her, and yet still, he was here, with her, every step of the way… 

She remembered what he had said.

_We are tied together now by a bond that will not be broken: not by time, not by struggle, not by hatred, the light nor the darkness.  We are one – you are mine now…_

_You are in me, as I am in you…_

The words of her enemy, she was now beginning to realize, were not just a threat: a statement fabricated in order to frighten her, and fill her waking and sleeping hours with dread.  They were real.  He was with her now, just as _she_ was with _him_.

And something was coming now, she sensed – something dark and utterly foreign to her perception: an evil that she had never before known…crawling on the wings of the night, searching for her, for her friends, for the very place where they were hidden…

*                       *                       *

A/N:  You've no idea how much fun I had writing that little exchange…no idea…  *cackles wickedly* And now back to sanity or something like it and personalized author's notes.

**Rosethorn:**  These last two chapters are dedicated to you, and your incredible abilities of subliminal messaging.  How do you do it…

**Raal the Sword Master:**  Yes, this latest tale of mine is without a doubt considerably different from the others – there is truly not such a distinct line drawn between dark and light, good and evil, this time…I am much enjoying stirring things up like this, and delving into such ideas.  Obviously.  And Shadow-Sweepers would be fun, but – as you said – 'tis a great pity we humans lack the magical powers necessary to play it…  ^_~

**Grayfalcon**: *bows* Glad to please, my friend…and like I've said before, it's all too nice to be able to finally write about Jaedin, who is the "hero", in a way, but is also the villain…a good change, methinks…

**And furthermore, to conclude:** Huge thanks and hugs to all who have reviewed so far, including fairytales101, Gryffindor-Gal, RaspberryGirl, Plaidly Lush, Riene, AngelofHope, DarkSlytherinAngel, Cheler, Sunrise-chick, and thepretender1031.  

Now, enough with the incredibly long and tedious author's notes, Kates!  Stop torturing these people and get on to the next chapter!  (Please r&r.)  ^_^   


	23. Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty –

A Most Strange and Unholy Alliance__

            

Jaedin let his eyes slide slowly open, coming out of the trance-like state that he had put himself into in order to seek his princess in the ways of his dark powers.  He hadn't gotten a direct lock on her location – she had been resisting him with all her might, and getting anything from their encounter had been difficult to an extreme.

_She does not know how powerful she is,_ he thought, candidly: knowing it as truth.

As the Dark Lord, he had toyed with the minds of many before, but never yet – before this time – had he met with such solid opposition as the Princess Elowyn had been able to give him.  That part of her, among the many others, intrigued him, and made him desire her all the more.  Here was a feminine entity that could not only amuse him, but challenge him as well.

And how he did enjoy a good challenge.

Finally…acquiring her…would prove to be _most_ worthwhile.

His full lips twisting with the thought of this – and all it entailed – he unfolded his long legs and brought them underneath himself, rising to stand.  He looked about himself: dispassionately and appraisingly, gray eyes scanning about the room.

Elowyn didn't know just how close he was; then again, however, neither did _Jaedin_.  Under the cover of night, he had followed her, in dragon form, across the many miles that had separated them again, upon her escape.  Now, he had taken up his abode in the ruins of an old castle, quite easily hidden from any and all that might seek to find him.  

On the morrow, he had decided, he would go out to look for her again.

And this time, with the aid of what knowledge he had obtained this night, in their brief interchange of words within the realm of the mind, he would be able to at last have her within touching range again.

Satisfied with this thought on his mind, Jaedin turned and sought his sleeping space, not really having the desire to sleep, but also not having anything better to do.

As sleep overcame him, he was seized with a brief sensation of foreboding and apprehension.  Someone, something, had followed him, and was lurking nearby, in the corner of his senses, like a splinter in his mind…

_But that cannot be so,_ he told himself, as he rolled over, pulling his cloak more closely around him, to guard against the night's chill.

_Even _She_ would not dare hazard such a thing…_

*                       *                       *

_Or wouldn't she?_

That night, though none of the dauntless travelers and adventurers yet knew it, would hold the beginning of a great many new things for them all – including the formation of a strange and most unholy alliance between the darkness and the light.

However, as of yet, the storm was still coming…

Elowyn ran through the manor, down halls and around corners, her steps seeming to take her into nowhere but the complete oblivion of shadows – but finally, however, she reached her destination.  Her room.  

Breathless and trembling, icy cold shivers running through her entire body, she fell against the door and let her hands find their bemused way to the handle.  When she had at last got it open, she stepped into the room, eyes quickly scanning across it, and then she ran quickly to the bedside of her sleeping cousin.

"_Sala_!"

Instantly, the faery lady's eyes opened, blurred with sleepiness for a moment, and then their golden-toned hazel orbs focused on the pale creature that stood before her.  She sat up, quickly, murmuring, her tone fraught with concern, "Elowyn, what is it…you look absolutely shaken – are you all right?"

Elowyn shook her head; her throat becoming tight.

"No, Sala, I'm _not_ all right," she said, urgently. "_Nothing_ is right – Sala, there's something out there – something horrid and dark, and it's getting nearer and nearer.  We've got to get out _now_ – tonight."

The sound of her voice, although low as it was, awakened Robbie from his uneasy rest, and he now appeared in the open doorway, running a hand quickly through his longish jet-black hair.  His eyes – so much like his handsome father's – looked through the shadows, quickly, to the two feminine figures across the room from him.

"Elowyn – Sala," came his boyish voice, tainted with concern as well. "What's going on?  I'm not sure whether it was the storm that woke me, or something else – something's going on, isn't there?  What is it?"

"Evil approaches."

The fourth – and last – voice came from the other doorway, and Brendan entered the room.  All three of the younger sojourners looked to him, questions and inescapable fears reflected in their eyes.  Brendan closed the door behind him, and came to stand before them.

"I don't know what evil this is, exactly, and I don't know from whence it came – but I _can_ guess." he told them, grimly.

Robbie's features took on a defensive cast.

"The Dark Lord?" he queried.

Brendan – and Elowyn, although barely perceptibly – gave a long, slow shake of his head, negatively.  "No," he replied. "Not he.  This is a different kind of evil – one that is as full of power and blackness as the Dark Lord, but of a different mettle."

"He came to me in my mind…" Elowyn murmured, distantly. "He was looking for me…" 

Then, she turned her gaze back on her friends: her sea green eyes were wide and dark, with determination, inner resolve to not be afraid, and confusion. 

"He was looking for me, but he didn't ever find where we were…it _cannot_ be him who comes now.  I could sense this darkness…but it has not his mark upon it.  I would have _known_."

None of the other three could find the will within themselves to ask her just how this was possible.  All that they knew was that now, in the dead of the night, there was a great dark power coming for them, borne on the wings of the approaching storm, and it was searching for them.  Somehow, inherently, they could all feel its presence within their minds.

_Escape was their only option…_

Brendan quickly roused himself – and them – from their silence.

"Quickly," he ordered. "Gather everything of ours that we brought here and make ready to leave.  We cannot leave any trace of our ever being here behind us – we must fly from this place."

And this was exactly what they did.

*                       *                       *

By the time that the thunderstorm broke, in all its fury, over the tiny manor that was hidden somewhere in the forests of Elvendome, the group of faeries had already been long departed.  And, as they had all somehow foreseen, there was _indeed_ a great evil brought along by the winds of that storm, and when it was discovered that there was no one about the place any longer, the storm intensified tenfold in its raging, and swept onwards to carve a path through the land…

Meanwhile, in the ruins of the old castle, Jaedin watched the havoc that was being wreaked upon the forests – by wind, rain, and lightning – staring out the broken windowpanes with cold, apathetic eyes of gray.  

At length, he turned from his observation, withdrawing from the immediate world into himself: deadening his senses until he could concentrate only on his thoughts.

How odd, that his Queen would command him to do something, and then send another one of her creatures to undo his work.  He had long been considering why it – the attack of the ranthar upon Elowyn – might have happened; thinking on it since she had fled him, and even _before_ that.

_One reason…  _

The Queen did not trust him – this, he well knew.  It was why he wore the vial of his life-essence upon his neck now, allowing her to see him wherever he went, whatever he did: giving her a hold over his every movement.  If he disobeyed her, she could effortlessly punish him in either of two ways – within an instant, she could shatter the crystal, therein ending his life, or she could slowly kill its power, cutting off the life within him bit by bit.

But why would she make her plans seem as if she wanted the princess brought to the Black City alive, and then turn around and try to kill her, with a ranthar?  It didn't make sense.

_Another reason…_

Was it a distraction – the ranthar attack?  Something meant to keep him occupied with trying to save the life of his princess, _his_ princess, whilst she – the Queen – went about some covert plan of her own?  That certainly seemed plausible…although what ulterior motive could she now have – what hidden plan?

Jaedin narrowed his eyes: forming the expression that had cast the dread shadow of fear – fear towards his insatiable, destructive anger – into the hearts of so many, over so many thousands of years.  He was not a mere pawn in this game of light and darkness.  He was the Dark Lord.

Then why…

Well, soon he would know all.  

He would find it out for himself, no matter what _she_ did.

_Perhaps…_

At the beginning of this new train of thought, he took the vial from its sheltered place in his robes, and held it delicately between two fingers, turning it gently round and round, eyes roving over its glowing whiteness speculatively and distantly: yet still intense.  

_Perhaps it is time that you made some alternate plans yourself, Jaedin of Sytherria.  No one really seems to care about what your fate is anyway – and you'll go to the blazes before you'll let them all have a good, long laugh at you, won't you…?  Because, after all, _that _is how _you_ work – you really can't turn to anyone, can you…_

His dark brows came down over the bridge of his nose, turning his expression virulent and truly nasty, and he abruptly replaced the vial in its original place.

_No one tells me how I ought to do things,_ he told the strange, inner voice that had just addressed him; mockingly, it seemed.

He stood, cloak whirling about him, and glared off into intangible space.  

_No one tells me how my destiny will be, and no one controls it!  I am master over everything of myself – I _will_ have her, and I will have this end, _as I want it_!_

Then the storm struck.

*                       *                       *

Meanwhile, not so very far away…

Elowyn paused, looking up into the tree branches over her head and reining in slightly, bringing her mount off to the side.  Her large, sea green eyes seemed luminescent and – it could easily be marked – somewhat bewildered in the night, the lightning from the storm clouds above reflecting off of their depths.  Her friends, noticing her pause, brought their steeds to a halt as well and Brendan, coming to her side, spoke first to her.

"Elowyn," he said, in a low voice. "What is it?"

She seemed as if she was suddenly off in another world.  She didn't answer him, for a moment.  Brendan felt a line of worry form between his eyebrows.

_It was as if her soul – or some other intangible part of her – had detached itself suddenly from her body, and flown off to another place.  She now saw the ruins of a crumbling castle about herself, instead of the thick, dark forest; someone was within this place, near to her, and yet she couldn't see him.  She was looking for him – moving through stone and air, passing through time and space, ghost-like, searching…_

_Something began to glow, very faintly; she detected, now, a flickering light, in the corners of her vision.  It began to well up, to grow, and become closer, bigger, more menacing…_

_Moving on, she kept looking – some part of her knew what, _who_, she was looking for, but in reality, she knew that she was only barely aware of it; a voice, distant and echoing, called to her, insistently: "Elowyn!  Elowyn!'_

_She put up a hand; telling the voice, 'No – no, leave me be, I must find him; no…'_

_Again, she moved on, and the light became brighter – brighter, and she felt a sudden, horrid heat upon her body, causing a cold swath of sweat to form upon her brow. _

_Fire._

_Then, she saw a figure: shadowy, tall, and menacing, robed all in black, and all too familiar to her eyes.  She reached out to him, calling within her mind to him, calling his name.  _

_He turned; he saw her._

_'Elowyn…'_

All at once, she returned to reality; with a shuddering gasp, she let her eyes fly open again, and found herself staring at the dark, tangled depths of the forest, the figures of her friends and their horses ringed around her.  Her cousin, nephew, and uncle were all staring at her, fear and anxiety in their air.  Without a word to them, then, she gathered the reins into both of her hands and set her heels into her mount's sides, hard.  

Orpheus obeyed his young mistress's urging without a moment's delay.  He instantly bolted into a canter, taking them both thundering off into the forest.  Elowyn heard hoof beats from behind her and knew that her friends were following.

Somehow – she didn't know how – she felt herself being called, called to that place that she had seen in her dream.  

Where this place was, she didn't know, and couldn't explain in words.  All she knew was that something was leading her there, and that she had to get there; it didn't matter how.  She felt a strange sensation of summoning within her mind, which told her that there was something she had to do – regardless of anything else, of danger, friends, fears, or _enemies_.

Moments later, they all came out of the forest, reining hard to keep their steeds from plunging helter-skelter down the steep hill that they now found themselves atop of.  

Elowyn looked down; there was a wide sort of valley beneath the heavily forested hill, in the center of which she marked the remains of an ancient Elven castle, long abandoned and half-forgotten.  Her eyes widened; her arm shot straight out, gesturing towards it.

"There!" she cried, suddenly, her voice strained and trembling, bringing their attentions fully down upon the old castle. "_It is as I have seen_!"

The castle burned.

*                       *                       *

Before Brendan could say another word, or even think to do anything more, he saw that Elowyn had set her heels into her mount's sides – once again – and was now hurtling down the steep incline towards the burning wreckage.  Panic coursed through him.

"_Elowyn_!"

And he followed, with a curse in ancient faery: Robbie and Sala close on his heels.  By the time that they'd all reached the bottom of the hill, Elowyn had already dismounted; Brendan caught sight of her running straight into the flames.  Waving an imperious arm at the two young faeries that were behind him, about to go after their comrade, he ordered, "No!  Stay here!"  

Then he ran into the fortress as well.  

The fire that burned there now was different from any normal fire – it had the stench of evil power upon it.  Brendan instantly knew, as he wagered Elowyn had also somehow discovered, that the castle was under assault by dark forces.  For what reason, he had no idea…but he would soon find out.  They _all_ would, though none of them yet knew it.

Raising an arm to shield his head and face, Brendan stepped over a fallen rafter and scanned quickly through the wreckage, looking desperately for the form of his young niece.  Because they were faery, they had all received the warning of a coming evil that night, and had been able to escape.  But now _Elowyn_ had somehow discovered this horrible inferno, and she seemed bent on seeking out something – or rather, someone, he now thought – that was within it.

"_Elowyn_!" he shouted, again.

But she, wherever she was, did not reply.

*                       *                       *

_I know you are in this place – tell me where you are!_

Elowyn's green eyes roved desperately from right to left, searching everywhere, for the figure that she sought.  He was here; she knew it.  Why she was so compelled to find him, she had no idea.  _Wasn't he her mortal enemy, her dread and most dire foe, a nemesis for all time…?_

But she had to.

_Where are you?  Answer me!  I know you can!_

Then, finally, from seemingly far-off: weak and faint, snarling at her like a wolf, wounded and trapped in a hunter's snare—

_I am right in front of you, Princess – now _you_ come to_ me_!  Now _you_ find _me_!_

And she brought herself to a slamming halt.  From within the seething flames of hissing, molten gold and blood-red, she saw the dim outline of a figure that she knew well: standing before her, cold gray eyes staring into hers from beyond the hood of the cloak he wore.

_Now where do we go, Princess?  Now where do we turn?_ his voice asked, in her mind.

She felt her mouth tighten.

_Out, Dark One – escape is our path._

_Though I do not know why, it seems that I am fated to share it with you…_

With barely moments to spare, the castle's sole inhabitants – two faeries, and another dark-cloaked, strange figure – fled from within the chaos of its flames.  The dark powers, whomever they belonged to, were defeated, and the group of five vanished into the coming dawn.

Morning's light found many questions waiting to be asked…

*                       *                       *

_Black underworlds…my head…what did they do to me?_

These were the first thoughts to enter Jaedin's mind as he slowly swam out of the depths of unconsciousness, back to reality.  When he finally did gain control of his senses again, he kept his eyes closed, trying to remember exactly what had happened last in his memory.

He had been staying at the old ruined castle, and he had managed to link his mind with Elowyn's; she had resisted him, and he hadn't been able to directly locate her, and then he had remained where he was, without doing much…then there had been the storm…a fire…

Ah.  _Now_ he remembered fully.

There had been a storm – undoubtedly yes.  And it had been a storm that was unlike any other – a destructive knot of power, formed at the behest of evil, and sent to both find the princess and her friends, and to punish him for his willfulness.  His Queen had sent it.

But then Elowyn had reached out to him, within her mind, hearing his call after he had realized what was happening – after he had marked that his Lady was attempting to unleash her anger against him.  Her mind had touched upon his, and he had used that connection to draw her to him, to make her come to find him.  The Queen's power, in that storm, could only be thwarted by some outside force, and Elowyn was his utmost choice; she had responded as he had hoped, and found him there, within the ruins.

However…_afterwards_…

The back of his head was throbbing: an irritating, dull pain, but nothing too unbearable.  Of course.  They had seen the need to render him unconscious – and therefore not a danger – and had…what had they used to overpower him, once they'd stopped in their flight?  He felt a twinge of wry humor within himself then and restrained his urge to smile ruefully.

Silver.  She had a silver necklace – and if there was one thing that could _truly_ incapacitate a vampyre like him, even if he was a vampyre who also happened to be a Dark Lord, _that_ was it.  Although, now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember if _she_ had been the one to knock him out, or one of her precious friends…

Just then, he heard footsteps coming, from far-off, getting nearer.  

Apparently, he was soon to have a visitor.  

He gave no indication of his wakefulness as the owner of the footsteps entered the room – or whatever the space was that he was now in; no indeed, he lay perfectly still until he was quite certain that the person was close enough…

The vampyre's hand shot out and clamped down on Robbie's collar, yanking him down closer to the makeshift bed.  Eyes of mercury-gray, tinged with violet, glared into the prince's.

"Where is she, and where the _blazes_ am I?" Jaedin snarled at him.

Robbie, however, merely nonchalantly disengaged the Dark Lord's grasp on his shirt and stood straight again, placing the tray of breakfast – whatever it was – on the floor beside the pallet.  He smiled: almost amusedly, which only caused Jaedin's countenance to take on an even more dangerous cast, and was silent for a moment.

Then—

"Elowyn!" Calling out without ever taking his ice-blue eyes from the Dark Lord. "He's awake, and you were right – just as bad-tempered as a whole_ gaggle_ of furies!"

Robbie turned to leave, but stopped just before he reached the door of the room – actually, it appeared as if it was more of a cell.  The ceiling, floor, and walls of the place were made entirely of stone.  They were in a cave of some sort, Jaedin decided – whoever _they_ were.

"I'd stay put and keep quiet if I were you," the crown prince of Lærelin then advised him, coolly. "And I wouldn't try blowing up anything, either.  She'll want to have a word with you, in a moment, so _please_…"

And then he turned and left.

Jaedin _did_ remain where he was, but it wasn't because Robbie had told him to.  As the footfalls of the boy faded away into the distance, the Dark Lord's gray eyes glared after him: full of hate and loathing.  So, this was her friend – one of her beloved comrades.  

_Well_.

He stood and paced across his prison-cell, eyes narrowed.

Once again, the tables had turned on him.  

It was beginning to seem rather pathetic, to him, that a faery princess – who was many a thousand year his junior, in both age and ability – should have been able to escape him not once, but twice, and at the same time resist and baffle him.  Then again, he had rather_ enjoyed _it all, but now _she_ had captured _him_.  

The game, he thought, was getting downright irritating.

As soon as this had passed through his mind, however, he heard a smaller, lighter person's footsteps coming down the stony passageway.  He could sense her presence – her air of newborn Spring, intelligence and sparkling wit, and cold, unbending regard – behind him, but he did not turn, did not move to look at her, to send his gaze into hers, until she spoke.

"Good morning, Dark One."

Jaedin turned, dark robes – which had no trace of fire nor wear upon them, whatsoever, even after the events of the night before – swirling about his proud, erect figure.  He let his chin take on an arrogant, defiant tilt, looking down on her appraisingly.  

Elowyn stood across the cell from him, in the doorway: almost leaning against it.  Even after the hard trials that had recently passed her by, her face was as beautiful and utterly flawless as ever: her loveliness rivaled by none, in his eyes.  He would have been happy to simply stare at her – to devour her with his gaze alone – for all of time, if that were at all possible.  

_Ah – if only to take her in your arms – to feel the soft curves of her against yourself again, her heart beating in time with yours…_

He smiled then: contemptuously, darkly.

"Ah – so it is _you_, Princess." he said, with mock-formality and courtly flourish, playing the part of Lord Valdeth again for her. "You have me neatly caught; I'll not shirk from admitting it.  'Tis a most intriguing hand that you have dealt me, now, in this game of ours…"

He began to take a step towards her, to cross the room, narrowing the gap between them; his shadow fell over her, menacing and instantly arresting.  They were so close.  Then, Elowyn held up a hand, her expression unchanging, and spoke to him.

"Please," she said, softly. "Don't come any further."

Jaedin followed her gaze to where it had centered, on the floor, and now he marked why she had just said those words, ordered him so.  

There was a carefully-traced line of silver, glinting entrancingly in the low light that filtered through the gaps in the cavern's stone roof: drawn in a perfect square across floor, walls, and ceiling, without a single break.  

_If he had crossed that line…_

Now he sent her an even more intense look: smirking at the knowledge that she had, indeed, defeated him, beyond all recall or retry.

"_Very _good, Princess…" he murmured. 

Then, he sensed the presence of others and looked up.  

In the doorway, standing about their princess, were the three other faeries: the boy whom he had just spoken to that morning, another girl whom he did not know, and a grim-looking older faery who radiated waves of great, age-old White Realm power.  

Jaedin let his smirk broaden even more, and he acknowledged them, one by one.

"And I see that you have at last been reunited with your dear friends and allies," he said: his eyes never leaving hers.  

Elowyn stared back, her expression still never changing, although he sensed a ripple of some almost completely hidden emotion within her.  This made him feel ill-at-ease, suddenly – if _he_ could sense these things about_ her_, he queried himself, could _she_ then do the same in regard to _him_?  He did not let his thoughts show through, however.

"Let me guess…" he continued, and pointed first to Robbie.  "_You_ are Robeneron, crown prince of Lærelin, and son of Arin the Enchanter and Elladine of the White Realm: a remarkable swordsman and the voice of reason in all your adventures with the Princess Elowyn and your friends." To Sala, "And you are Salamaïre, daughter of the Duke Lannon II and the Lady Netalla: a wyvern-friend, fiery spokeswoman of your trio, and eldest there, as well."

And then he turned to Brendan.

The eyes of the two met: faery and vampyre.  Robbie, Sala, and Elowyn sensed that something, in the silence, had passed between their guardian and the dark figure of their greatest nemesis; it was an ancient, knowing something that they – who were all so young, in the reckoning of both the Dark Realm and the White – could hardly comprehend.

"_You_…" Jaedin said, speaking slowly and musingly, putting deliberate emphasis on each word: "_We_ have not met."

Brendan shrugged, seemingly nonchalant and calm, although each of the three younger faeries noted that his eyes narrowed slightly at the captive Dark Lord's sally.

"We have," he replied, never taking his eyes from Jaedin's – "But that meeting took place long ago, and in much a different place and guise.  I am surprised," and this was added in a tone of wry, scathing sarcasm, "That there is an actual form beneath all the razor-edged armor…_Ríth-Anstarinaor n'et Sytherria_."

Jaedin bowed, with an equally scathing and knowing look of sarcasm and brittle cynicism on his handsome face, recognizing a well-remembered foe.

"Greetings again, Lord Brendan of Avalennon," he said. "It has been _far_ too long, my age-old enemy…" 

Now he turned to survey the room once again, gesturing dramatically as he spoke: his dry, elegant voice resonating clear and sharp against the stone walls of the place. 

"So – now you are all here, and, _apparently_, you have me caught good and proper: right where you want me." 

He looked to Elowyn, his eyes focusing in on her: completely ignoring the others. 

"What will you have of me this time, Princess?" he asked her, breathing the words softly, seductively. "Anything that I can render unto you…is _yours_."

There was a world of unsaid things beneath those words.  

Robbie – barely able to restrain himself from lashing out, in violence, at the Dark Lord – leaned over and asked Elowyn, in a mutter: "Can I _please_ hit him?"

She made a mollifying motion with her hands, still not looking away from Jaedin.

"No." she murmured. "Peace, Robbie."

Jaedin raised an eyebrow, his full lips quirking in tandem with it; the expression made his scar seem all the more apparent, and Elowyn lowered her eyelids slightly, cursing herself for ever allowing him to draw her into him so very much.

"My words have clearly upset His Highness," the Dark Lord commented, coolly.

Sala now took her turn and stepped forward; she, unlike Robbie, was not as easily dissuaded from anger, and action resulting from that anger, and more often than not, even Elowyn's words had no effect on her temper.  

Hazel eyes snapping, she addressed the tall, proud figure before them.

"You _clearly_ know of us, vile one," she said, putting mocking emphasis on his use of the word 'clearly'.  Jaedin reacted to this merely by letting his smirk center on her, as he took up his pacing stride across the small space that they had given to him as his cell. "But we know very little of _you_.  Especially in regard to why you have followed our princess here."

The gray eyes held more than a hint of arrogance and contempt.

"And I do not ask your forgiveness for 't, either, lady," he replied, coldly and formally. "I followed your princess here of a purpose – to carry her off.  That _does_ generally follow the general contractual obligations of a resident Big Bad Wolf, does it not?"

And he turned a mocking smile on them all.  

Elowyn heard Robbie mutter belligerently under his breath and felt him shift position at her left; meanwhile, on her right, Sala sent flamethrowers at the figure of the Dark Lord with her eyes, and behind her, Brendan was completely silent.  She was glad to have them there with her…for now she knew that she had to ask the one question that she had long desired to have an answer to…

"How does your Queen intend to destroy us, Jaedin of Sytherria?"

Unknowingly, she took a step forward, moving away from her friends and coming closer to the boundary line of the vampyre's prison.  Jaedin ceased pacing, like a caged panther, behind the line of silver and stepped towards her as well.  

They drew near to one another, and for a startled, incredible moment, it seemed as if they were not a Dark Lord and a faery princess, not mortal enemies, or anything but two beings who had somehow known each other from all of eternity before.  

_Two souls who knew one another with infinite intimacy, having a bond between them that nothing could break – not war, not lifetimes of separation…_

The spell remained unbroken as Jaedin came to stand before her, so that they faced one another, a very tantalizing and precarious few inches – barely a foot – apart.  His gray eyes pierced into hers, their gazes locking as their minds did the same.

Here, now, the shadows could not exist.

"I will not lie to you, Fairest…" he said, and his dry voice that was neither deep nor tenor, but resonant, clear, and immediately arresting, was lowered into a soft, gentle murmur that was almost tender.  

He raised a hand: brushing fingertips in the air, almost touching her. 

"The plan is quite simple.  You are fated to have a part – the main role – in the destruction of the Dark Realm.  A prophecy has long declared this to be true: you are the Child of Destiny."

He drew even nearer to her.

Elowyn opened her lips, in warning, but somehow, something in Jaedin's eyes of molten silver told her that he did not need to be reminded.  He stood, with the toes of his boots just a fraction of an inch behind the line, and looked deep into her face, her eyes.

"Therefore," he said, seeming to speak to her and her alone, "The Ebony Queen desires this of your father, ruler of all the faeries – he must either relinquish his daughter, the only hope that the White Realm will ever have for the eventual obliteration of the world's looming evil, giving her into the hands of his one greatest enemy…"

Elowyn gazed up into his eyes, feeling the inevitable, inescapable attraction – the gravity, the pull – of her spirit, her mind, heart, soul, and body, towards him.  She _wanted_ to step across the line, all at once, and she _wanted_ to forget: knowing nothing but the safety and warmth of his arms, and the feel of his velvet lips upon her brow.  Jaedin stared back at her, his eyes full of memory – of memory and longing and, faintly, hope.

Then, Robbie's voice: impatient – "_Or_?"

And Jaedin stepped back, instantly, putting distance – and cold formality – in between the two of them again, although his eyes still did not take themselves from hers.

"Or hand over to her the spell that links the world of magic and enchantment to the world of the mortals, therein making it hers.  The Dark Realm's." he amended, almost ruefully.  

He spoke in his normal dry, bitter tone again now: his voice fraught with austere, cynical coldness and contempt, the sharp edge of his deadly sarcasm held in check on by a thin veneer of frigid decorum. 

"If he should choose the latter, your precious last hope for preserving the White Realm and all those who dwell within it will endure, and you may _yet_ have the chance to one day destroy the darkness."

This was all said dispassionately and mechanically, almost as if he were reciting a tactical report to several members of his military.  Elowyn wondered, then, what his _real_ outlook on the situation was.  From what she had seen, his relationship with his Queen was a truly bizarre one…

_And it was not necessarily a partnership of complete amity…   _

But now Robbie was stepping forward again, ice-blue eyes blazing.

"That's a _lie_!" he said, furiously.

Jaedin raised an eyebrow and looked to Elowyn for explanation.  She pondered for a moment just how much she ought to tell him – but, then again, he was their prisoner now, and he could not make an attempt to escape or to otherwise harm them without fear of incurring some damage to himself in the process.  

And he had already told them enough…

"Without the mortal world," she said, speaking slowly and pensively, "The magic – the power – of the faeries cannot survive.  We would fade and die, in time."

_…Their beauty will last in memory alone – they have nothing to do but fade and wither away, as time touches them…_

Elowyn flinched at the memory of his words, suddenly realizing just what they portended.  None of her friends seemed to have marked her movement, however; and Jaedin, if he had seen her reaction to that memory, did not give any indication of it.

"So then," he said, drawling the words coolly and nonchalantly. "You have come to a draw – you cannot now move either way."

"Not quite, evil one," Sala interposed, her eyes flashing dangerously.  She was only just controlling herself. "For now we have you – now, the bargaining power is _ours_."

Jaedin laughed: the sound ringing cold and clear in the stone room, resonating in their ears much as his voice did when he spoke.  

He turned his vibrantly amused regard on the lovely faery, then, and, grinning, eyes bright with mirth, asked her, "Really now?  How so, m'lady?  For my Queen can operate fully well without me – she will be significantly impeded, weakened, without my aid, but I would not be so overly confident, so _vain_, if I were you, even at _that_."

"We have great reason to be as confident as we are," Robbie replied, in challenge.  Jaedin's eyes held a venomous gleam when he looked at the young prince, who continued, "Your captivity at our hands is quite enough, and more, to ensure us the ability to stop your bloody Queen's plans here and now."

"_Indeed_." 

Jaedin purred the word, like a giant predatory cat; his eyes narrowed to slits, allowing only the faintest glimmer of his irises to show through. 

"Please, _do_ explain this to me, your Highness…"

"No." Sala said, flatly. "_You_ tell _us_ where you hid the spell."

Jaedin's mocking expression fell flat – his outward façade of complete arrogance and confidence wavering for an instant, but only Elowyn noticed, for he quickly replaced that mask, asking, "What?"

Robbie replied for his cousin.  

"It was stolen from its place in Avalennon not two nights hence…where have you taken it?"

"This is easily the most pathetic thing that I have ever heard, I assure you, milords and miladies!" 

The handsome Dark Lord took a step back and looked upon them all now, shaking his head in utter disbelief, condescending and theatrical: making the situation seem like it was all some sort of overdone melodrama, and they the sorry players who attempted it onstage. 

"Of a courtesy, could you possibly run that by me again, so that I may be certain that I have heard you aright?"

A muscle worked in Robbie's jaw as he said, in a very tight and very controlled tone of voice, "The White Realm has a spell that links it to the mortal world – you said that your Queen would take it in exchange for Elowyn's life.  It is gone already: what do you know of it?"

Jaedin's amused expression now turned to a dangerous snarl.

"This is ridiculous!" he spat. "I have never laid hands on the spell you speak of!"

Sala turned to her comrades, with an air of desperation and flouted strength.  "Yet still he lies…" she sighed; then she looked back to him. "Where is it?" Punctuating every word.

And now Jaedin looked as if he might just step over that line and risk considerable injury to himself, if only to throttle her.  His eyes, all of his features, alight with that same vengeful rage that had terrified and cowed so many of the thousands of years of his existence, he shot back at her, "How can you ask me?  _I don't know_!"

Elowyn looked at him, unable to take her eyes away, as she realized—

_He's telling the truth._

_For once, it is not lies, not deception, that falls from his lips…_

It seemed as if he was now trying very hard – surprisingly – to control himself; possibly, they thought, because he didn't really want to cross the boundary and be affected by the poisoning effect of the silver on his vampyric body.  There might have been another reason entirely for his abrupt turning around, putting his back to them as his fingers worked – balling themselves into fists and then flexing, as if itching to strike out as something, violently – but none of them could comprehend or imagine it.  

Jaedin stared at the stony wall, trying furiously to think.

Thoughts were flooding his head – doubts, questions, and many, many more, so totally filling his consciousness that he couldn't concentrate on anything else.  Then, something suddenly resounded in his head: something that made him stop all thought process, visibly stiffening.  He now realized what _must_ have happened – what _had_ happened.  

His conjecture from earlier had been correct, after all.  

An unpardonable treason had just been enacted against him by the very one whom he had sworn to serve and obey for all of eternity.  

The Queen, distrusting him and his loyalty to her in the wake of his dealings with the Princess Elowyn, whom he so desired, had sent the ranthar to attack Elowyn, to distract him while she sent another of her minions to steal the legendary linking spell from Avalennon itself.  And now, he was caught by the very people whom he had been meant to destroy, and there seemingly wasn't any way out for him, unless he could rely on reason…

But one glance at the group that stood before him told him that no: that would never work.  They were all too ready to hand him over to justice – to the wrath of the faeries of the White Realm and whatever punishment that they had ready for him – and would never even attempt to negotiate anything with him.  He hardly laid fault to them for this.  He wouldn't do the same himself.

_Unless…_

Again, the strange, unearthly link that he had always felt between himself and Elowyn served as an invisible aid; Elowyn, somehow sensing his thought, looked at him: her eyes burning the back of his shaven head, and Jaedin continued to stare at the wall, letting his eyes ease open a little more.  _Speak, if you will, Princess…_ he told her, within his mind.

"You know something of it," she said, in her soft voice.

He nodded, slowly, and then turned around again, facing her once more.

"I _do_," he conceded, slowly and guardedly, "But I am hardly certain of anything that I see or hear before me this morn – _I do not trust my own thoughts_…"

At this, there was an entire barrage of questions and then threats from the group of faeries who stood before him, but the captured Dark Lord refused to say more.  Finally, Elowyn turned to her friends and gestured that they should follow her out into the hallway.  

Jaedin remained behind, to further pace in his cell, like the caged feral being that he was.

Once they were well out of both sight and hearing range, in the cavern's main chamber, Elowyn threw up a shielding spell around the four of her group and spoke quickly.

"He _does_ know something," she told them all. "He will not say what, but the fact remains that there is something in his mind pertaining to this thing – I _must_ find out what it is."

"So must we _all_," was Robbie's rejoinder to that.

"We needn't say that the fate of our world – of _you_, especially, Elowyn – hangs in the balance," added Sala, grimly. "Perhaps this is too great a thing that we have undertaken; already, the wrath of his Queen will be upon us for imprisoning her right-hand."

"No, I do not think so." 

Brendan spoke for the first time, in seeming eons.  They looked to him, questions in their eyes.  He shrugged, shortly and simply, and then explained.  

"The Dark Lord of Sytherria has always maintained an odd sort of relationship, at best, with the Ebony Queen; you all will have well-guessed this by now.  He neither renders respect nor complete obedience to her, and she has not yet demanded either of him, in full…until _now_.  My theory is that somehow, _something_ has passed between them that has caused a sort of great rift in their partnership.  Can you not see how he reacted to the news that the dark powers had moved, without his foreknowledge?  She is going behind his back, in some strange and fell way, and they are sundered, for the time being."

Elowyn was silent, mulling over this.  She bit her lip, and then looked up at them all.

"Then that's it," she said, simply and resolutely. "Regardless of anything…the past, the future, _anything_…we now have, as you have already noted, an unexpected aid in our war-game here.  We have the Dark Lord, and if he is as set against his Queen as you say, Uncle Brendan…well then, we _may_ just have an advantage, at long last."

Robbie and Sala gaped at her as they realized what she meant by this.

"Elowyn, no – you can't _possibly_—" began Robbie, but she cut him off with a gesture of one hand, smiling wryly and a bit grimly as she did so.

"I can, and I _must_, dearest Robbie," she replied. "This is not a mere tiff between rival parties that we are dealing with, as is utterly obvious by now – this is the beginning of a _war_.  And I intend to do my part in it.  You forget that I am the Child of Prophecy…and I have had dealings with this particular Dark Lord before.  Worry not; I go to seek out the Wolf, once again…"

*                       *                       *

Elowyn approached the cell silently, her booted footfalls noiseless on the cold stone floor; she came to stand at the door, leaning against its side and looking into the room without comment.  Her green eyes ran over the still, proud and erect figure of the captured Dark Lord: recognizing and knowing him.  In all her previous days, she would have never imagined that she would, one day, actually _meet_ the Dark Lord of Sytherria – and she certainly could have never fathomed what their interactions with one another would have been like…

_It just goes to show you how life can, and always will, surprise you._

Jaedin was standing still in the center of the small space, staring up at the ceiling, which had a sort of skylight in it, far above even _his_ head.  The light poured down, faint and chalky, onto his figure, glancing upon the straight, bold lines of his shoulders, and highlighting his pale skin and shaven head.  He looked ghostly; spectral.  Him.

She roused herself from her casual position of observance, allowing him to become prescient of her being there.  

As she had expected, he reacted by ceasing to be a living statue: first, his fingers flexed, at his sides, and then his shoulders gradually, gracefully fell; and, last of all, his head slowly came down to its proper level – notwithstanding, of course, its perpetual arrogant tilt.  

_That_, she was certain, would _always_ be a part of him.        

He turned his head to the side, slightly, allowing him to catch her in his peripheral vision; it was, most likely, alarmingly good, she thought.

"You know," she commented, entering the room: stepping out of the shadows and allowing her figure to be fully illuminated by the light within the place, "You shouldn't scowl like that – it will give you worry-lines."

Jaedin's full lips twitched, faintly, in bitter amusement at her sally.  He turned, ever so slightly, as she came further into the room, stopping only when she stood about a foot back from the line of silver.  His gray eyes gleamed unnervingly as the light glanced upon them.

"Did you come here just for _that_ – to give me cosmetic advice?" he questioned her, cynicism and sarcasm dripping icily from his tone.

Elowyn shrugged, calmly.

"Perhaps."

He was very volatile – she should have remembered that from before; for now he suddenly and without warning rounded on her, eyes blazing and features twisted into a fierce snarl.

"Do _not_ dissemble with me, little one," he rasped. "I warn you – doing so will _scarcely_ improve my temper!"

Elowyn did not react, other than quickly inhaling, her eyes widening ever so slightly, which made her dark, thick eyelashes form a vivid contrast to the pale skin of her brow bones.  The two archenemies faced one another, at a standoff: he, the power-radiating, dark figure that towered over her, the pale and supremely beautiful form of light.

Then, from her, with bizarre, mordant cheerfulness: "I think that we should have had it well established by now that _I_ am as capable of dealing with _your_ temper, Dark One, as _you_ are of dealing with _mine_ – I can hardly have any doubts there, after all of this."

Jaedin, for all his wrath at his imprisonment and the betrayal of his Queen, could not help but recognize those words as true.  

They were, truly, evenly matched as far as temper.  And now, as he looked at her, he knew – again – that he could never allow her to be destroyed…

"What do you want of me, Princess?" he asked her, breathing his question in a low voice that only she could have heard.  He stepped close to the line, bending his head down so that he could look, with greater ease, into her eyes. "What did you come here, to me, for?"

Her regard upon him did not change; the sea green eyes did not waver.

"When it was said that someone within the dark forces moved, without your knowledge, I sensed your thought – you had not expected this, you did not know of it."

"_Yes_…" Jaedin fairly hissed the word.

"What does this mean, Dark Lord of Sytherria?"

He shrugged, staring off: silently, into space.

"What does it mean?  Perhaps much – perhaps very little.  It all depends on one's perception, I suppose…" 

He trailed off; then, with a quick, decisive glance at her, he continued, as if he had suddenly decided to trust her, however marginally. 

"My relationship with Zaschaea, the Ebony Queen, has become remarkably strained as of late, as a result of the infinite attraction that you are to me, Princess.  I won't lie to _you_ about that, at least." 

So saying, he turned and paced across the room again, then half-pivoted on one booted foot and leaned his elbow against the wall, resting his weight upon it, his eyes never leaving her.

"I've made far too many enemies of myself in this world, Princess," he told her, wryly. "The Dark Realm, the White Realm, the entire land of Sytherria, among many others…"

"There's _more_?" she asked, acerbically.

Jaedin shot her his most debonair and rakish, lopsided half-grin.

"Believe it, Princess…" he said. "There's many more than even _you_ can imagine."

"Oh, I do not doubt it," she replied.  She took another step closer to him, carefully remaining behind the line of silver, however. "And now your Queen is your enemy…"

He made a faint scoffing noise, shrugging disdainfully.

"When was she ever my friend?  In this matter, I will let you draw your own conclusions, Princess.  The immediate scene before you ought to tell you enough – I am here, at your mercy, and it seems that no one is in any immediate haste to lend me their aid.  Power comes at a high price, and even then, it is not totally bereft of the threat of _betrayal_.  I am alone in this world."

Elowyn let her lips quirk, wryly; she had guessed as much.

"And what of your solemn friends, the Antari?" she fired back.  

The thought simultaneously occurred to her, then, that they were, once again, fencing words, and in much of the same manner that they had utilized in the very beginning of their acquaintance.  Before violence and desire had gotten in the way, that was…  

Jaedin's expression became dark and knowing, his eyes boring into hers, as he replied, "I wouldn't bring them into this, _merron nenein_,"—_That name again!  What does it mean?_—"Don't you think I soon learnt of exactly how you had made your escape from my fortress?  And besides," Rousing himself once more, pushing away from the wall, and coming towards her, "The Antari have the strange and _wonderful_ tactic of making themselves exceedingly scarce when their master is not present to command them.  I could not very well summon them now and, at the same time, have any hope to keep the Queen's eye from being drawn to me."

They now stood directly across from one another.

"So you really _are_ alone in the world," Elowyn said, softly, but without emotion.  She turned her gaze up, to look into his face: trying to read his features.  But there were so many shadows there – so many memories and ghosts of thousands of years past, blown into obscurity by his immense age and boundless experiences…she couldn't see beyond those entrancing gray eyes.

Jaedin nodded.

"Yes…and _you_ want something of me, don't you, Princess?" 

He bent his head again, angling it so that he could look directly down into her face.  If the line of silver hadn't been there – barring him from her with its invisible blockade – she was certain that his fingers would have, in the next instant, reached out to touch her face, to tilt her chin up and back, until she was looking up at him as well, fully.

"There is something that you desire of me."

"_There is_…" she echoed, distantly.

"Princess, do you fear me?"

With those words, in an instant, she came back to reality: out of the realm of thought.  She fought the ether from her mind and looked up at him, resolute and cold.

"Yes, I fear you, Jaedin of Sytherria," she said, without balking at the revelation. "I fear you more than any other entity in this world – and it is well that I do, for no other soul has touched mine as you have, and yours is a soul tainted with the darkness.  But when everything – _everyone_ – that I know and love is in peril, when fate of the world that is mine hangs in the balance, and it is within my power to save it…"

"You would not hesitate for a moment."

_Oh, your memories!_

Elowyn nodded, without looking away.

"What is your bidding, Princess?"

And she spoke the words – the words of binding destiny.

"You will take us: myself, the Lord Brendan, Prince Robeneron, and Lady Salamaïre, to the Dark Realm, to the fortress of your Ebony Queen; there, you will help us to recover the spell that she has stolen from us.  You will not attempt any treachery.  After all of this has been done, the ties of my demands are broken, and you may go free.  If you refuse, we shall hand you over – here and now – to the heads of the White Realm, who will give you the end you justly deserve."

"The end that all dark lords are, in time, forced to subject themselves to, is that not right?" he asked, coolly; seeming utterly unfazed by her ultimatum.  

He shrugged. 

"I may show you the way to the Dark Realm easily enough, for it is a path that I have traveled many a time – the question is, however, Princess – are you willing to delve into such darkness?"

"I have now immersed myself in the shadows that are you, _Ríth-Anstarinaor_," she said, her words a cold and impassive murmur. "I do not believe that I will ever know anything darker."

Jaedin's lips curved in a slow, strange smile.

"Then perhaps we will both learn further of this together…" he said, enigmatically.  Elowyn held his gaze for a moment longer; then, suddenly, he looked away: his expression changing from one of an intense, fiery longing and desire to one of cold, hard realism.

"Princess, I believe you have a dagger on your person, somewhere?"

Taken aback by this abrupt change of subject – even from one so highly volatile and even seemingly bi-polar as him – Elowyn was stunned into silence for a moment.  Then, slowly, she nodded, and unsheathed the small blade that hung at her belt, almost hidden by the folds of the thick gray cloak that she wore.  Behind the boundary, Jaedin held out a hand: a gesture for her to come closer.  Mystified, she obeyed.  

The vampyre Dark Lord took a step forward, bringing them to within a foot of one another, so that they were almost touching, and then he did something very strange indeed – pulling back the sleeve on his right arm, he bared his wrist to the chill air in the room.  

Then—

"Lance the skin," he told her: in the same calm, nonchalant tone that he might have used if he had been telling her to go out and fetch a pail of water.

Elowyn stared at him, in horror.

"_What_?" she asked, incredulously.

Jaedin seemed oblivious to her alarm, and repeated himself. 

"Lance the skin.  Do as I say."

But she couldn't – what kind of bizarre behavior was this?  If she lacerated one of his veins, he would die: bleeding to death in a few moments!  

_And she could not risk that, his death…_

When she did not comply, Jaedin moved – almost unthinkably fast – and suddenly his other hand was around hers.  His grip was cold and hard, like a vice.  She stared up into his eyes, her mind whirling, as he repeated, in a savage, snarling low voice, "_Do as I say_."

And then, without another moment's delay, he took her hand, in which she held the dagger, and used it to slash the blade across his own skin.  

Elowyn nearly choked on the emotions that were welling in her throat; he released her, abruptly, and she fell back, staring at him.  Jaedin, meanwhile, was looking at the long, thin score on his forearm: watching as the blood began to well up from the wound.  He placed his other hand over it, and looked up at her, finally.

"The promise of a Dark Lord – bought at the price of blood."

He handed the dagger back to her with these words, making carefully certain to keep his arm from going over the line.  Elowyn took the dagger, staring with wide, dark eyes at the scarlet staining the blade, as Jaedin's eyes of molten silver gazed at her: seeming to penetrate through her skull, into her mind itself.  

"May you do this and worse to me, if I _ever _turn my hand against you in the course of this quest, Princess Elowyn," she heard him say. "I will take you to the Dark Realm."

*                       *                       *

A/N:  And that is how a Dark Lord makes his promise…not going to be going _there_ again…  Well, I suppose that I've warned everyone – the rating on this tale stands for "intense characters/situations".  *grins*  So, now we finally have our alliance formed between the forces of ultimate evil and unsullied good – what is destined to happen next?  Only time will tell…that, and the update to come…until then, my friends!

@{---------------------------  


	24. Chapter Twenty One

            Chapter Twenty-One –

The Quest of Legends:

A Beginning

Which Includes Vampyric-Insomnia, Skullex, Sylvan Doppelgangers, Worm-Holes, Harpies, and Dragons   

Elowyn returned into the main chamber of the cavern, her tread silent once more upon the stone floor.  She came around the bend, a curving wall-like structure that was naturally built into the cave, complete thoughtfulness in her air.

Her nemesis was now her ally…

A dangerous ally, however, she reminded herself, sternly.  Jaedin, no matter how incapacitated he might _seem_ because of his vampyric drawbacks, was still the dreaded Dark Lord, and he could, in all reality, turn on them in an instant.  But…_he wanted her_; she could never forget this.  Would his desire for her love – for _her_, as a whole – serve as the ultimate protection for them all?  Only time, it appeared, would tell.

She walked wordlessly into the chamber, glancing around it slowly.  

The place where they had now hidden themselves seemed as if it had once been an ancient ritual site, utilized as both a sort of worship place and living quarters; hence, the room-like spaces within it.  Built into a mountainside, with a waterfall artistically hiding its entrance, it was a rather convenient hiding place – but one that would only last them for a little while.  

In the main chamber, her friends sat in a circle around the small fire that they had going.  Robbie and Brendan were staring pensively into the flickering flames, as Sala rummaged about in her pack, looking for something.  Elowyn stopped in her tracks, standing completely still.

Brendan saw her first.

"So…" he said, grimly. "How did you find the Wolf?"

She smiled, ruefully, and came to sit down on the floor beside him and Robbie, drawing her legs up to herself so that she could drape her hands over her knees.  She was silent for a moment, and then she replied, "I think I've made a sort of bargain with our Dark Lord…"

Their attentions were immediately and completely hers; questions buzzing in the air, they all gathered around her, all talking at once, until Brendan held up a hand and commanded, "Peace.  Now, Elowyn," looking at her directly, "I think we shall be needing some explanations here."

So she told them succinctly of what she and Jaedin had agreed upon, in his cell.  

The reactions to her words were various: Robbie groaned, instantly perturbed to the highest measure that they had become this involved with the Dark Lord, whereas Sala questioned Elowyn wryly on whether she was sure of what she was doing or not, and Brendan mulled over the news.  At length, Elowyn halted all discussion and spoke, firmly.

"He is our only hope – this is the only way, although I would never tell him that, for the sole fear of fueling his maniacal ego," she said. "_Yes_, this is a Dark Lord that we are dealing with, and someone who cannot be at all trusted.  But now we have him at our mercy, and he knows it full well – we _must_ use it to our advantage!  Think on it, you all…what else can we do?"

She paused, looking into each of their faces, one by one.  

"We don't know where the Dark Gates reside…they move far too often for anyone to map them precisely, and they are the only way to enter the Dark Realm, and thence on to the Black City.  But even if we _did_ somehow stumble upon one of them, what then?  We've not yet ventured into the Black City; Uncle Brendan, _you_ have, but I fear that things will now be much different there than ever before, in the wake of the new changes we have now seen.  _He_ can take us there, and help us to get back the spell.  We need him.  I do not like to admit it myself: you must know this…but we _need_ _him_."

"But – like you said – we'll not ever tell him that."

This came from Robbie, surprisingly enough.  Elowyn hardly dared to let the dawning hope that she had within her: hope that, perhaps, they would agree with her, seeing her words as true, show through within her eyes.  Sala shifted position restlessly beside her.

"How do you know he won't try anything – as, we all know, he _is_ a Dark Lord?"

"Even Dark Lords keep their promises." 

Brendan surprised them all with that comment. 

"They may be ruthless and without scruple when it comes to getting what they want, and keeping what they've gotten…" he continued, grimly. "But they won't ever break a promise.  _Ríth-Anstarinaor_ never did, in all the years that he reigned as sole Holy Terror over the world – why should he begin _now_?"

*                       *                       *

Later that day, the group of faeries – lead by their dark vampyre guide – departed from their hiding place, and rode out into the wilds of Elvendome.  Like the lands of the Known World, the lands of the Elves were composed of cities, villages, towns, and various other Sentient dwelling-places, but they were also quite unsettled, for a good part.  

It was through these regions that they now rode…

They should be able to make good time if they moved with cautious speed, Jaedin told them; judging from where they now were in Elvendome, their journey would take them more than a few weeks – even on horseback – but it was their only way.  Traveling by magic required too much power, and even Brendan and Jaedin, advanced in their own separate arts as they were, could not summon enough to transport the five of them at one time.

And so they rode forth.

Elowyn rode Orpheus, his wings folded gracefully at his sides, with Jaedin riding to her side, not too far from her.  The chain that secured them to one another – keeping him from making any bid for escape – would allow them to put hardly any distance between one another, and Jaedin would not let any other person in their party ride close to him.  

Nor _would_ they.  

Conversation was sparse among the members of the party, and especially so between Elowyn and Jaedin; thus, they passed the first day of their quest.  Having started out late in the afternoon, they had not traveled many hours before they had to stop for the night.  _Nighttime is a dangerous time to travel, especially when one is questing against the Dark Realm,_ Jaedin had said.  

And for all of his previous lies, _this_ statement they _did_ trust.

They set up camp and went to bed before the moon had climbed to its highest point in the sky.  Ringed around the small fire that had been built, they each looked up at the stars – prepossessed with their own private thoughts – until sleep claimed them.

Of course, the Dark Lord was one of the last to fall asleep, and his chief captor, the Princess, was experiencing the same strange insomnia.  

Elowyn looked across the dying embers of the fire to Jaedin: she was lying on her stomach, chin resting on her folded arms, her cloak and blankets wrapped close about her to ward off the night's chill.  Jaedin mirrored her position, and he was looking straight at her, his eyes never moving from her face.  Pushing away the urge to shudder at this, she looked back at him.

"Don't you _ever_ sleep?" she asked him, in a hissing whisper.

He shrugged – if such a thing was possible, when lying down.

"I find it hardly necessary; although, if I were given the choice, I would most of the time be awake instead of dreaming at this time of night.  Vampyric tendencies, you see."  

He added that last casually: with an airy, nondescript motion of one hand. 

Then—

"Do you mind if I watch you sleep?"

Elowyn, truly startled and then outraged at the simple, almost school-boy-like candor in which this was asked, sat bolt upright and stared at him.

"What kind of a question is that?" she spat at him. "Go to sleep!  And don't you dare move either or—"

"Or _what_, Princess?" 

His smile at this was faint, almost soft, and yet full of arrogance; just slightly curving his full lips, and not exposing any teeth. 

"Or you'll employ your most dastardly weapon on me again?  Because I warn you – doing so will bring you that much closer to me, and although _I_ wouldn't find such an experience _at all_ distasteful, I am fairly certain _you_ would."

"_One_ more word out of you, Jaedin," was all that she hissed back. "_One more word_."

"Sweet dreams, Princess," he said, still smiling arrogantly.

Then, he rolled over and lay still, not saying anything more.  Elowyn stared at him for a moment longer, as if transfixed, and then she lay down as well, pulling her covers over herself, as if doing so would not only take away the coldness of the night, but also banish the feeling of iciness that had so suddenly gripped her heart.  Perhaps this was all a very, very bad idea…

_Sweet dreams indeed, Dark One…_

_Only if _you_ will stay out of them._

*                       *                       *

The next day dawned clear and bright: the sun beating with increasing gold warmth down on the treetops and into the forest.  The travelers awakened early, to the sounds of birdsong, and departed, leaving no trace whatsoever of their presence behind themselves.

If they were to make this journey, they would have to do so with more secrecy than any of them could have yet utilized.  It would be all too easy for the Queen's eye to be drawn to them…

And none knew this better than Jaedin.

They all rode along, wordless except for a few snatches of conversation between the others of the party; he remained silent.

In his heart – if he even had such a thing, which he had somehow doubted for hundreds of thousands of years – he knew that he would have turned on his captors within an instant, if he could have.  Any villain would do so, and he was a ruler among such entities.  It was expected of him.  But, as he had told Elowyn, he could not break his promise, and would not.  Honour was something that even Dark Lords were bound by…even one such as _him_.

He glanced at her, carefully, as he thought of this.

The faery princess had incredible bravery, incredible selflessness – he guessed _that_ was what it had to be, able to come up with no better description for it – for she had been able to set aside her fear of him, her hatred for him and everything that he represented, in order to save the world that she knew, and the people she loved.  Of course, her hatred for him and all those like him was part of what most likely spawned her desire to complete this quest, not merely her desire to see those she cherished endure throughout all of time.

_But only a few things will endure through all of time, Princess – will your beloved White Realm be one of them?  For I can imagine a bond that would surpass even that in agelessness…_

There, again, went his self-destructive desire.  

His longing for the Princess had turned his Queen against him, and deprived him of both his power and his advantage.  As the Dark Lord who served under the Ebony Queen, he would have been able to see the world of mortals and the world of faeries brought into submission by the Dark Realm – but now he had precious little but _himself_ to rely upon.  His armies in Sytherria, the indestructible Antari, everything…all but gone now.  Even his powers were severely sapped, drawn from him by those who were now his captors.  

As soon as that silver wore off…

Thinking of that reminded him of the exquisite pain that had shocked through him that night, when he and Elowyn had found one another in the fire.  The back of his neck still stung when he remembered that moment.  Vampyres did not take damage easily, and most often healed quickly, but when it was silver that had been used against them…the results were not often so effortlessly brushed off.  

It was a low blow to the race, to have such inhibitions.

He shifted position in the saddle, wondering how much longer he could take being out in daylight – another vampyric drawback, and apparently one that his captors couldn't really give a care about.  As he moved, however, he felt the chain that he wore about his neck – nearly forgotten, in the depths of his shirt and tunic – stir against his skin.  

_Zaschaea…_

As long as he wore the crystal hidden, covered by whatever clothing he was wearing, she could not see him – and when she could not see him, she could not know what he was doing.  It was a risky gamble, he realized.  If the Queen had really wanted to, she could have either immediately destroyed him or gradually sucked his life power from him.  He might not have very much time left to live, especially if the latter were so.  His life-essence could only endure for so long after its initial power had been undermined.

And _that_ was why it was, above all things, _imperative_ that he did as the faeries had requested him, and followed the lines of the bargain that he had made with Elowyn.  If he could get into the Black City, he might yet have a chance to save himself, and at last wreak his full and unmitigated vengeance upon those who had betrayed him.

_But not yet,_ he thought, gazing at the back of Elowyn's golden head as she rode along in front of him, completely unknowing of his eyes upon her.

_Not yet. _

"Stop – we pause here for a moment," Brendan's voice came, from a little ways ahead of them.  Jaedin then noticed that the three others of their group had ridden past his mount and Elowyn's; they two had originally taken the lead, as _he_ was the sole guide.  

Without comment, he dismounted and tethered his coal-black stallion's reins to a conveniently placed, low branch of a nearby tree, then walked over to Elowyn and her Pegasus.  Orpheus put back his ears and shifted on all fours at the vampyre's approach.  He knew that tall, dark figure all too well.  

Seeing this, Jaedin grinned – malevolently – exposing his rather unnerving pair of sharp-looking incisors, along with the rest of his incredibly white set of teeth.  The princess looked down at him from her place above him in the saddle, one eyebrow lifting coolly.

"He doesn't like you," she remarked.

Jaedin shrugged, his fingers straying to bury themselves in the Pegasus's flowing, silky mane, which clearly infuriated him. 

"Most intelligent beings _don't_," he replied, with his usual darkness. "People – and most horses, as well – somehow inherently know that when they look at me, they are seeing the foremost evil in their world, and all before I've even had the time to say my name to them.  May I assist your dismount, Princess?"

And he held out a hand.

Elowyn didn't even glance at the black-leather palm.  Instead, she swung herself down from the saddle, on the totally opposite side of the Pegasus, and tethered her reins to the tree as well.  Then, coming around in front of him, she shot Jaedin a thoroughly withering look.

"I might have said this to you before, Dark One – don't _ever _touch me."

And she walked off, to join her friends.  

Jaedin remained where he was, looking after her, but only for about roughly three seconds – then, the chain connected to the shackles on his wrist tightened, and he was compelled to follow.

The stop was one for about half an hour's rest, and then they were to move on.  However, when they had all found each other in the small clearing in the woods, it was discovered that there was no water nearby – dismay indeed, for they were all becoming quite thirsty.  Each one of them had had adventures in the woods of Elvendome before, but it appeared – now, as they made off to look for a stream, or some source of water – that there was quite a bit about the area that they had yet to learn.  

As Robbie stood to move off into the trees, Jaedin was slyly silent until he had gone about fifty feet from them.  Then, he remarked, "I ought to have warned you before – about these woods."

Instantly, everyone's attention had riveted on him.  He was silent for a moment longer, just to drive them mad.  Then, cryptically—

"They _are_ perfectly safe, you know."

Sala and Robbie looked as if they were just about to throttle him, and Brendan looked exasperated; Elowyn, however, was watching him with a peculiar, intense expression in her sea green eyes.  _You can never lie to her,_ Jaedin thought, with sudden realization.  _She knows it all – she knows everything, just as you know everything about her…_

"If we're 'perfectly safe' here, then why did you say that you should have warned us about them?" came through the trees, from Sala.

Jaedin leaned back, nonchalantly, against the tree trunk that he was sitting up against.  This, apparently, was going to be quite amusing.  

For _him_.

"Oh!" he said, in the same knowingly cryptic manner as before, "Well, they _are_ – really – _if_, that is, you count out the sylvan doppelgangers, wandering mind-phantoms, marauding gypsies, and gremlins: all of which would be quite happy to deprive you of either your purse, your mind, or your life, depending on the time of day you catch them at."

And he was silent, in waiting expectancy.

Brendan and Elowyn were first to catch onto his clandestine game, and it was Brendan who first put the Dark Lord's wishes into words—

"All right – which one of you wants to take the vampyre for a walk?"

*                       *                       *

"You know, Princess Elowyn, I _can_ hear you saying all that, and flattered as I am that you would come up with such descriptive and colourful terms to describe my person, I must say that I find your anger just a slight damper on the lovely _sunny_ afternoon that we have here."

_Such amusing irony – really._

Elowyn gritted her teeth, trying very hard to ignore her urge to turn around and slap him across his arrogant face so hard that his teeth rattled.  She walked on, keeping as much distance between the two of them as was possible.

"Ignoring me won't do anything for you, either, Princess."

Suddenly, his voice spoke directly into her ear.  Elowyn jumped, coming to an abrupt halt in her tearing walk.  And there he was, standing right in front of her, as she stopped – right into his chest.  Black velvet was all that her eyes directly saw as she stood there, for the split second that it took her to recover her senses.  She inhaled the faint scent of sandalwood, some dark, smoky fragrance that she could not put a name to, and incense, along with a thousand others: his smell.

"_Mmph_!"  

Then, after this little sound of initial surprise, she pushed herself away and stepped back, with fury in her eyes.

"Didn't I tell you—"

As if only barely listening to her, Jaedin tipped his head back a bit, eyes shooting up to scan the forest canopy above his head, the golden sunlight striking fully down on his broad shoulders and smoothly shaven scalp.  How different he was from all the other masculine figures she had ever seen, she thought; how different he was from anyone she had ever yet known.  In appearance and bearing, in speech and action, in everything…

"Didn't you tell me…?" he repeated. "The words you used, I believe…" Stepping close to her again, so that she could feel his warmth up against her, could feel _him_ against her; fingers gloved in black leather came under her chin, bringing her head up and back, so that she looked into the sharp, proud features of the one who stood before her, "Were, 'Don't _ever_ touch me' – 'Don't ever touch me'…_ever_.  _Ever_, Princess."

"Enough – stop it."

She tried to push herself away, to step out of those arms, but they wouldn't let her go.  _He_ wouldn't let her go.

_The darkness is always, ever around us …why should you fight against it?  If it is within us, why should we resist?  Why not embrace it…_

Suddenly, then, echoing distantly from the woods—

"_Elowyn…Elowyn_!"

The conversation was cut off; both Jaedin and Elowyn's heads swiveled, away from one another, to face towards the sound of the voice.  Elowyn stepped back, out of his arms, as they became – without warning – slack around her.  She made as if to move towards the voice, but then her dark companion's arm shot out and clamped around hers, just above the elbow.

"Let me go!" she snapped. "That is Sala calling me – they're all likely out looking for us by now, we've been gone for so long!"

But Jaedin's expression was now one of suspicion and dark recognition: his gray eyes had narrowed, the storm clouds reappearing in their depths, and his brows had gathered.

"No." he said, in a low voice. "That is not your cousin."

Elowyn was totally dumbfounded by this.

"Of course it is!" she hissed at him, trying to pull her arm away from this.  _Enough of these tense interactions between him and me,_ she thought.  _They might all look very nice in print, in a book somewhere, but I've had enough of this creature's attempt to woo me!  I'll not be had by _him_!_

"Now let me go!"

Jaedin shook his head, stepping forwards and turning her around, so that she had her back up against his chest.  He held her there, in silence, for a moment, and then he gestured off, into the trees, seeming satisfied by what he had seen.

"There," he said, then. "Is _that_ your cousin?"

Elowyn looked in the direction that his arm had indicated to her, and saw a slender, dark-garbed form weaving among the tree trunks, seeming as if it was searching for something.  As it came closer, she saw its more specific features: short, dark hair, distinctly faery features, and a pale gold bracelet of a wyvern – coiled and intricately detailed, with eyes of amber gems – on its left wrist.  She again struggled against his hold on her.

"Yes, _that_ is Sala – you know her look!"

Jaedin shook his head.

"Think again, Princess – in these fair woods, nothing is as it seems."

He made a gesture with one hand, and then, without warning, another figure appeared, conjured out of thin air, about fifty feet behind the figure of 'Sala'.  

It was a perfect double of _him_.

"Look."

At another movement from him, his double waved an arm at 'Sala' and called out her name, in a too-loud, cheerful tone that Jaedin himself would have never used.  

"Sala!  Sala – over _here_!"

The figure of her cousin turned at the sound of the voice.

"Oh!" she called out. "Where is Elowyn?" 

And she began to move towards his conjured apparition.  Elowyn looked up at Jaedin, over her shoulder, perplexed.  It seemed that she knew less about the forests of Elvendome than she had thought, telling from the Dark Lord's actions at that moment…

Then, as she watched, she saw both Brendan _and_ Robbie's figures come out of the trees, moving towards where Jaedin's specter stood.  

"Watch." Jaedin murmured in her ear.

As they looked on, they saw the three forms continue to move towards his specter, across the small meadow that was between them.  

Then—

Suddenly, there was a great rumbling sound that seemed to emanate from deep beneath the earth, and – all at once – the place in the meadow where 'Robbie', 'Brendan', and 'Sala' stood caved in, creating a gigantic hole in the ground with the noise of an explosion!  Debris went flying everywhere, and then, Jaedin took Elowyn by the arm and led her across the space.  

They found themselves looking down into a large, blackened pit, from the depths of which issued the acrid stench of burning sulfur, and, she noticed, wet earth.

The sound of running footsteps came up behind them, and then the _real_ Robbie, Sala, and Brendan were standing there with them, staring at the hole with expressions of mingled horror, shock, and incredulousness that mirrored hers.  

Only Jaedin looked totally nonplussed.

"B'marrthian worm hole," he told them, matter-of-factly. "A good place to look for a long fall; highly explosive, for some strange reason.  I think you'll find them the perfect way to dispose of any kind of pursuer or various other enemy…and the doppelgangers that haunt these forests.  They only knew _Elowyn's_ name because it had been used in conversation, after we'd stopped – but you can always tell that they're not the people they impersonate because of two things…" 

He trailed off.

"And what are those?" asked Brendan, dryly, knowing that the answer was coming – but only _after_ the vampyre had been prodded a bit.

Jaedin smirked, darkly.

"Only a doppelganger would be addle-brained enough to go around yelling in any part of the forest in Elvendome," he said. "Most normal Sentient beings have some concept of stealth – and doppelgangers never look _quite_ like their real counterparts.  If I remember correctly, Lady Sala, the eyes on the wyvern-vambrace of yours were made of rubies, _not_ amber – is that so?"

Sala nodded, her fingertips abstractedly passing over the bracelet.

"They are," she replied.

Jaedin smirked again.

"Then there you have it."

Elowyn held up a hand, stopping him before he had time to turn around.  

"Wait," she said, with a frown darkening her face. "If they'd seen _all_ of us, and they knew my name because you had said it, Jaedin, then why did they only impersonate Robbie, Sala, and Brendan, when they were trying to fool us just now?  There wasn't one of _you_."

The Dark Lord merely flashed her his incredibly white grin: curved incisors flashing in the full afternoon sunlight.  Elowyn drew her conclusion from that – obviously, being a vampyre meant just as many advantages in life as it did drawbacks.

"All the better for _them_." was his answer. "Shall we be moving on then?"

*                       *                       *

The next two days of their quest passed smoothly, and without untoward event, except that Jaedin had to begin wearing his cloak and hood to keep from exposing himself to the sunlight, having reached his vampyric limit of three days.  However, on the afternoon of that third day, they would all find that their list of problems to deal with extended _far_ past brief encounters with sylvan doppelgangers and their sort…

Brendan had them all up and preparing to move on at the crack of dawn, as soon as the birds had first begun to stir themselves within the trees and burst forth into their morning songs.  Elowyn managed to convince him that they should at least take time for a cup of tea before they left – she was not, by any means, a morning person, and tea meant a _proper_ waking up for her.  As she, Sala, and Jaedin sat near the fire, each ruminating soberly over their steaming mugs of the hot, sweet beverage, Elowyn broke the silence.

"I keep trying to envision scenarios that would have included your being here, Jaedin – and not on war-business, but I fear that I am drawing miserable, repeated blanks.  Put it down to too much travel and not enough sleep, if you want."

Robbie, walking past with yet another pack to load onto one of their mounts, heard her last few words and smiled wryly as well.  

"Aye – _that'd_ be it, if anything," he commented.

"Put some snap in it, Rob!" came Brendan's slightly impatient voice, and the crown prince of Lærelin started, and put some snap in it, moving away from them. 

Jaedin let Elowyn know his dark amusement at both her sarcastic end comment and her barely veiled curiosity about his past by letting the corners of his mouth curve up a bit, as he raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow.  He leaned back against the fallen log that he was sitting indolently up against, locking his fingers together behind his neck with an air of complacency and satisfaction.  He couldn't deny that he vastly enjoyed making them wonder…

"Actually, you are right, Princess," he replied, sitting forward to pour himself another cup of the strongly flavored and highly caffeinated tea, then resuming his original position. "I _have_ been here before: on several different occasions, in fact, and not always to attend to matters of war.  Long ago, before I ever became the Dark Lord, taking the exalted rank of commander over the dark forces – when I was around _your_ age, in fact – I traveled both the Known World and the Lands Beyond extensively.  I familiarized myself well with their realms, peoples, and creatures."

Elowyn looked at him long and hard: her expression searching but, beyond that, unreadable.

"And what have you concluded of that knowledge?" she asked him.

Looking straight back at her, from within the depths of his face-shadowing hood, the vampyre replied: enigmatic as ever, while still giving her an answer of a sort—

"It has served as my guide and aide more often than even _I_ can recall, Princess – in both times of war and peace."

Shortly after that, they were ready to move on, and – the last traces of their ever being there swiftly and effortlessly dealt with by a quick blast of magic from Brendan's fingertips – rode out into the forest once again.  

The scenery that they were now passing through was not merely wooded area, however: it transformed into wide open fields, winding streams and small rivers that ran into ponds, lakes, and even a few magnificent waterfalls, and rolling, borderline mountainous territory.  Jaedin's knowledge of the land – which was so far away from the more heavily-populated coastline of Elvendome that it was rarely frequented by any race of Sentient beings – helped them immensely, although none of them had the stupidity to mention their gratitude to him.  

Then, a little while after the hour of noon…

*                       *                       *

Jaedin's silvery eyes suddenly became hard and intense, staring out at some invisible boundary, and he reined in short.  His movement caused the chain that connected him to Elowyn to tighten, and she turned in the saddle, pulling Orpheus to a slow halt as well, looking at the dark figure behind her.  Her green eyes held a flicker of wariness.

"What?" she asked, shortly.

He shook his head, mouth forming a straight, unforgiving line as he still did not look at her.  Up ahead of them, Brendan, Sala, and Robbie stopped as well.

"Something follows us – or rather, something is looking for us.  It doesn't have any sort of powers, but…" 

He trailed off.  Then, the quick faery ears of the other four served to alert them, abruptly, of many approaching beings.  Oddly, there was no trace of inherent dark power in the air, but they had to remain cautious, even at that.  They all dismounted and quickly pulled their steeds further into the woods, down a small knoll and into the gully beneath it.  There, Brendan looked up, trying to get a better sense of what – or who – was coming through the woods, towards them.

"Skullex."

Jaedin nodded, eyes narrowed.

"Yes, _Skullex_," he hissed, lowly. "The war has begun, and my Queen has sent out her first string of attack – she cannot see where we are, or where _I_ am, but she has decided to act, nevertheless; it is not because of _us_ that they have come to this place."

_But they would kill us instantly if they could, and then fly back to their mistress to report of the mishap – such is the way of war…_    

As she considered this, Elowyn thought that she heard Jaedin emit what sounded like a growl, deep in his throat, and she shuddered.  If he took it into his mind to go out and deal with the vile Dark Realm warriors…  She couldn't risk that kind of peril!  Knowing only this, she acted hastily – leaving Jaedin no time for any further thought, she reached over and grabbed his hand, just above the wrist, and hauled him towards her.  

"Hide!" she ordered her friends.  

Without a moment's hesitation, they did so.  In an instant, they had melted, like shadows at twilight, into the dense undergrowth of the forest.  

"And we are left together once more, Princess," Jaedin commented, without sentiment, and then he was reaching forward to take her by the arms, just above her elbows.  Elowyn found herself propelled silently but firmly into the cavity that the roots of a tree made in the small hillside; her back hit the loose top layer of soil, but Jaedin wasn't through yet.  Before she could stop him, he'd forced them both into a rolling fall.  Ever the self-assured acrobat, he moved so that they landed without injury among the roots, with his arm beneath her head to keep her from being hurt.  

Elowyn quickly took note of another aspect of their current position – lying on the ground, tucked into a sheltering crevasse, was all very well and good, but _he_ was certainly _very_ close to her, and their arms and legs had somehow become very much tangled up in the fall.  When she tried to look up, she was only able to lift her chin about an inch before her forehead was touching his throat.  She could feel his breath in her hair, on her skin; the pulse in his neck pounded against her cheek, and she could hear the labored whistling of his breath in his chest, as she lay there, curled up against the side of him – her worst enemy.

But now was not the time to think of this – there was too much to risk.

And so she lay still.

"_Don't move_." Jaedin whispered to her.

She sent him a truly acid, withering frown, her jade eyes flashing lightning bolts of irritation at him for that.  He moved his arm, pulling her further out of sight, into the cavity in the hill, and she felt her own breath welling against the black velvet of his chest.

Meanwhile, from above them—

Nearer and nearer came the noise of many roughshod, marching feet: a detachment of Skullex, accompanied by their mounts – carnas – and a number of their commanders.  The group of faeries and their one vampyre companion lay still: very, _very_ still, each holding their breath with the thought that perhaps even that smallest of sounds would attract the attention of those who now passed by above them.  

Elowyn stared up, into the tree roots above her head, and knew that her companion was doing the same.  She suddenly thought that, really, if he had _wanted_ to, he could have walked straight out into the midst of the vile, skull-headed warriors and announced that he was taking control of their battalion.  And oh, by the way, would they _please_ kill this quartet of bloody infernal meddling faeries while they were at it?  But…he had said that he was now alone in the world, no longer commanded by his Queen, who had betrayed him…and he had given Elowyn his vow…

Once more, she was forced to ask herself – could she _ever_ believe him?

The time that the Skullex took to pass overhead seemed to stretch into eternity.  Elowyn felt her senses dulling themselves as they waited…waited…  Slowly, she became aware of only the sound of Jaedin's heartbeat, his and her breathing, and the darkness that surrounded her.  The moments dragged on and on, as they remained hidden: silent.

At last, she realized that much time had passed, and she no longer heard the noises of the procession overhead.  Jaedin was still silent and unmoving beside her – or rather, halfway beside her, and halfway over her – and she couldn't decide if she ought to be still or not.  Surreptitiously, she made a circling motion with her pointer finger, forming the words of a searching spell in her mind.  She withdrew inwards to herself, listening to the nuances of the magic…

A split second later, she brought her head around and looked up into the Dark Lord's profile.  He seemed to be very intent…on studying her hair.

"They've been gone for a long while now," she said.

And she didn't bother keeping the bite out of her tone.

Jaedin acknowledged this with a cool, indifferent nod.

"Oh – I know," he said.

Elowyn reached over, with one hand, and found exactly what she had hoped she would – the particular hill that they had chosen as their hiding place just happened to be the location of a thick blackberry patch.  And in the next instant, the Dark Lord of Sytherria found a long, wet smear of dark blue juice swiped across his cheekbone and nose.  

Without a moment's regard to how he might react to that, Elowyn firmly pushed him off of her and stood up, brushing her clothing back into place.

"We move on!" she called out to her friends, and walked away.

*                       *                       *

It was indeed as Jaedin had said – the war had begun, and although the Ebony Queen had no idea that there was a group of faeries, led by her own former right-hand commander, the evil-hearted lady had already begun to send out her troops for the Dark Realm's first forays into the mortal lands.  She had a mind, it appeared, to spy out the realms that she would soon be fighting against, in a war to end all wars…

If there had been a need for them to employ caution before, this now increased tenfold.  The Queen was not looking for them – although she had sent the storm after them – but if her troops were about in the world…they could not let her find them, especially with Elowyn in their number.

Harder they rode now, and the lands of Elvendome speedily passed them by…

Shortly after the appearance of the Skullex – before the end of that same day, to make things worse – they found themselves plunged into the thick of a truly strange kind of forest.  Instead of the towering evergreens and their usual neighbors, the willowy denizens of this forest vaguely resembled thick stalks of asparagus, bright emerald in hue, with gigantic yellow flowers crowning their lofty heads.  

Jaedin had begun to eye these with distaste as soon as they had ridden into their midst, but when he had begun to speak a word of caution, Robbie had snapped at him that they had no time for idle worries now – it would be far easier to cut through the forest than to attempt finding a way around it.  The vampyre looked at him with unreadable eyes, and said no more.  

And they rode in, with no further ado…  

But then, all at once, strange, hoarsely warbling cries began to fill the air, and their mounts began to buck, pawing at the ground with their hooves as they made noises of malcontent, the whites of their eyes beginning to show.  Elowyn steadied Orpheus, but with no amount of ease – the Pegasus was normally unafraid of everything, what could possibly be causing him to behave this way now?  She turned to Jaedin, with a frown.

"Jaedin, what is wrong with them – why are they—"

"_Harpies_!"

Sala's cry rang from behind them, and then total pandemonium ensued.

The horses, even Orpheus, went berserk: rearing openly, with neighs that were fierce screams of terror.  Elowyn unsheathed her sword and held it over her head, bending her arm so that it became a shield for her face and scalp, struggling to control her panicked mount.  There was a blur of noise and movement – horses' hooves thudding, scraping against the dirt as they tried to run, her companions crying out and shouting from around her, and above it all, the horrid squawking of what were surely some of the more feared Malevolent creatures.

Harpies were a species of monster that were not affected, to any measure, by magic – this, and the creatures' tough skin, made fighting them very difficult, even for faeries.  With bodies that resembled both eagles and lions and heads of hideous old crones, complete with venomous snakes entwined in their matted auburn hair, they were truly worthy of all the hatred the other races gave to them.  Savage and bloodthirsty, they were – able and even _willing_ to bring down a human and pick its bones clean, as a flock.

They had stumbled upon a rookery, Elowyn realized: only too late.  Harpies, it was well known, made their nests in the type of tree-like flowers that their party had passed under…and, unfortunately, Jaedin's warning had gone unheeded.

Elowyn brought Orpheus around, wheeling him about, and brought her sword down through the air, messily decapitating a harpy that had been about to fly at her, needle-like talons extended.  The thing fell to the ground, still croaking roughly, its black blood staining the ground.  Stinging, hard feathers smacked against the side of her head then, and Elowyn stabbed upwards with her blade, skewering another harpy.  She shook it off, sending it flying into a knot of its comrades, who immediately turned…and set upon it.  _They devour their wounded as well._

_Zinnng!_

An arrow whistled past Elowyn's shoulder, to embed itself in the chest of a harpy behind her; Sala was employing the skills taught to her by her Amazon mother and her ladies with a relish.  Already, mounds of rumpled and bloodied harpies lay on the ground, all about them.

Yet more turquoise bodies were descending from the sky.

_How can we stop them?_ Elowyn wondered, as she began to fight her way towards her friends.  Then, she stiffened as she realized that she hadn't seen Jaedin within the last few moments.  Gritting her teeth, she swung her head around—

And came face-to-face with a harpy, which was flying right at her!

Elowyn screamed and threw her arm up to guard her face, even though she knew that it was too late – in the next split second, the creature's talons would carve her skin into ribbons—

_Shwing!  _And Elowyn felt black velvet brushing against her face; she opened her eyes and saw Jaedin.  He had ridden his horse directly in front of her, and was shielding her with his body between her and the attacking harpy: sword drawn from its sheath and flashing in the dying sunlight.  He called out to her, in a clear, cold voice that rang over the tumult—

"Double back to your friends, Elowyn!  It's the only way out!"

"It's _not _the _only_ way!"

Jaedin turned his shaven head just a fraction of an inch to the side, angling it enough to let him look at her, in furious speculation, out of the corner of his eye.  She stared back at him, as the world seemed to slow and mute itself around them, freezing.  She nodded, breathing hard.

_She knew that he understood her mind._

They had to act unthinkably fast.  Elowyn yanked the chain that secured her to the Dark Lord, whipping it around her arm and pulling it back to herself.  

The key to the shackles appeared in her hand then, and she pointed it out towards Jaedin's dark figure, saying a rapid string of words in faery.  All at once, the iron-wrought key began to glow, with a shimmering green light, and a blast of it shot out towards Jaedin, absorbing into the shackle that he wore on his wrist.  

Jaedin was ready to act the moment her spell of release reached him: his fingertips briefly touching his wrist, he then looked up, into the sky above them, and became very, very still, almost deadly in his silence.  Elowyn pulled hard on Orpheus's reins and shouted to her companions, "Fall back!  Fall back, all of you and for bloody Fates' sake, _get down_!"

A huge, black whirlwind seemed to suddenly emanate from the figure in black velvet, and the four faeries all shrank away from him, forcing their mounts to turn and flee.  The harpies, seeing only this new thing to attack, converged on the whirlwind, with shrieks and gabbling cries that were reminiscent of glee and delight—

But what they met was not another easily brought-down prey.

It was a _dragon_.

Robbie, Brendan, Elowyn, and Sala raced into the fringes of the real forest – not the harpies' rookery – and shielded themselves as best as they could.  

This was, they could tell, going to be very unpleasant.  

The huge black dragon spread its wings and shot up into the sky, with a mind-breaking roar.  An instant later, the pack of harpies that had followed in its wake were engulfed by a blast of white-hot dragon fire, and became promptly incinerated chunks of coal.  The dragon swept back down to earth again and began to tear into the flock: eyes glowing red with vengeance and the desire, the need, for blood.  

Elowyn watched as her erstwhile lover – the Dark Lord of Sytherria himself, in the form of a dragon – savagely and efficiently dispatched the entire flock of harpies.  Within seconds, a rain of torn feathers and charred, torn harpy bodies came raining down out of the sky where the creatures engaged in mortal combat with the dragon.  

The forest was filled with the noises of the battle.  

It was a losing struggle for the harpies, however: the dragon was simply too huge, too powerful, and too fast for them to escape, and in spite of their leathery skins and slashing talons, the flock soon fell from the sky.  Only when the air had become completely still again did Elowyn and her friends venture forth.  

The sight that met their eyes was a truly gruesome one: the ground was littered with the bodies of horribly mangled harpies: some missing heads, others with chunks taken out of their chests by the dragon's claws; there was black blood everywhere.  The rookery was in a ruin.

Elowyn hastily took her eyes from the devastation, too sickened by what she saw before her to look at it for another second.  Her lips formed a single word, as she stepped forward, although no sound left her…

"Jaedin…"

In the place where the harpies' rookery had been was now a wide-open space, where the flower-trees and nests lay scattered about, destroyed.  And in the center of it loomed the large, hulking bulk of the enormous black dragon.  

Elowyn approached him carefully – promise or no promise, the Dark Lord was in his dragon form now, and that meant considerable danger…  Jaedin, however, remained where he was, lying on the ground and somewhat affecting the pose of a sphinx as he started to pick the remains of his aggressors out of his teeth with one long claw.  She came to stand next to him, and, after a moment's pause for thought, she placed both hands on the dragon's huge, muscular forearm, looking up at him with searching eyes.

"Did you enjoy that as much as it looks like?" she asked him, quietly.

The dragon's left eye opened, to a thin slit, and its pupil roved to look back at her out of his peripheral vision.  His other arm came down from his mouth, placing itself calmly on the ground next to the arm that she stood by, and then he looked at her fully, head cocking to the side atop its long, reptilian neck.

After a pause for thought, "Yes, I suppose that you might say I did."

"Elowyn."

Robbie's voice spoke up from behind them, and both the dragon and the princess's heads whirled to face: almost guiltily, it seemed, her friends as they approached the pair.  

Elowyn returned her gaze to the huge black dragon.  Her sea green eyes were knowing, pleading…and even strangely sympathetic…and at her look, the dragon, immediately reading her thought, nodded slowly, wordless.  She took a step back, giving him room, watching as he rose up on his forepaws and bowed his head, eyes closing – a great, howling black whirlwind came up around them then, engulfing the figures of both the enormous winged beast and the small, slender faery princess.  

Within a moment, it had all subsided, and the four faeries found themselves standing in a recently made meadow, among the fallen trunks of flower-trees and harpy nests.  And just a little ways from them, kneeling on the ground with the torn remnants of his tunic and shirt hanging in shreds of black velvet about his figure, was the Dark Lord of Sytherria.  Elowyn made a soft noise of protectiveness, and made an involuntary move towards him through the wreckage, upon seeing that he had transformed back into his true form.  

Jaedin put out a hand towards her, though, as she approached him: he had his head bowed, his other hand resting on his knee, and seemed as if he was either quite winded or even almost utterly spent by the effort of shape-shifting.

"_No_." he rasped.  She balked, at his command.  Shaking his head, eyes closed, he said again, in a softer, but no less uneven tone, "No.  Stay a moment – it's not passed yet…"

Jaedin closed his eyes firmly, willing himself to disconnect with the world beyond, and delved into the realm of his immediate form.  

Shape-shifting took talent, even for the most experienced of magic-handlers; he could normally do this, the transformation from vampyre to dragon and back, without a thought.  But now, he felt himself unusually tired, unusually disoriented, by an act that had never before troubled him…  His head felt as if it were spinning, and he could feel the numerous injuries that the harpies had inflicted upon his dragon form – the long, thin scores from their needle-like claws and tearing, serrated fangs – beginning to sting horribly.  His vision was blurry…  Quickly, he shook his head, attempting to clear off his daze.

_BAM!_

An explosion of searing white light smashed into his mind, nearly knocking him over.  His features twisting into a snarl of pain and confusion, Jaedin fell forward, onto his hands and knees: struggling to hold back the cry of rage and agony that was threatening to escape from his chest.  A woman's voice: cold, low, and throaty, came into his consciousness then, echoing as if from down the corridors of centuries before, long-gone and all but forgotten…

_All at once, he saw himself standing in a dark, open space: lit by a single ghostly light from far above his head, while everything else was held in shadow.  Zaschaea now stood before him, resplendent and terrible in her black gown.  She looked at him, silently._

_"Jaedin of Sytherria, you have betrayed me – you have turned from my service…" she said, her flame-lit eyes never leaving his.  _

_He moved, beginning to pace in a circle around her like a caged panther, eyeing her with hatred and fury in his silver eyes.  _

_"The Dark Lord of Sytherria serves no man but himself, and no man am I, even; I call you on your folly, Ebony Queen.  It is you who have betrayed me."_

_"I sought to ensure myself of your loyalty…" she said, lightly._

_To this, he gave a short, barking laugh.  Then he rounded on her, cold, and contemptuous._

_"There would have been an easier way, Zaschaea…but now, I have not the will to report to you everything that I must do.  I know that you will attempt to find me – but I do not think you will find it an undertaking that you, or any minion of yours, can complete."_

_Her look was one of fleeting despair, and barely concealed disappointment._

_"I trained you too well…" she murmured. "Whither do you go now, my Dark Knight?" _

_"To the winds that forged me, where I shall walk the path of a nomad…"_

_And he stepped away, breaking the connection._

He came back to reality within an instant, and found Elowyn kneeling beside him, her hand on his shoulder.  She was so close to him – never before had she shown herself willing to initiate such contact!  He stared at her, in shock…and then a wave of pain, icy and burning, shocked through his chest, where the claws of a harpy had left a wide-open wound.  He gasped with the sudden agony of it, and slumped forwards, withdrawing into himself.

After a moment, having finally gained enough control over himself and the pain to speak coherently, he grated out, "It's—_gasp_—not safe – to stay here.  Harpy rookeries are—_groan of pain_—more often than not – rivals – normally; but when one is attacked, its neighbors will—_sound almost like a whimper_—come to wreak vengeance on the aggressors."

Elowyn looked to Brendan, who stood a little ways back with Robbie and Sala.  

The four exchanged glances, at a seeming standstill: uncertain of what to do as of yet, and then Elowyn made an executive decision.  

She stood, her hand slipping under Jaedin's elbow, and gently forced him to stand – mindful, all the while, of his injuries – and stood there, together, with him for a moment, her figure fitting up against his perfectly, overshadowed by his tall, dark form.  Jaedin swayed on his feet, unsteadily, cursing the Ebony Queen inwardly for her attack upon his life-essence, which had served to make his shape-shifting a cause for pain and disorientation.

"We need shelter – we'll make for the nearest town," she said. Looking up at Jaedin, uncertainly, she then questioned, "Do you think you could show us the way?"

He looked off into the distance, as if already hearing the vengeful flock of neighboring harpies coming for them.

Finally, "I could.  We must be there by nightfall, however – the woods in which harpies make their homes are more than often more dangerous than normal forests.  Being on the ground, here, at night…" 

He trailed off, with what could have been either a shudder of pain or of memory at what spending the night in such a forest as this would entail. 

"I'll lead on."

They moved off towards their mounts, which were all standing grouped together at the fringes of the real forest: looking quite unnerved and uneasy, brief shivers passing through each one of them.  Elowyn spoke to Orpheus soothingly as she walked towards him.

"It's all right, old fellow," she said, serenely, "They're all gone now; the awful creatures are dead, and dead beyond recall.  But now you must take us out of this horrid place, and remember just who and what trained you – you'll not let those awful harpies make you into a frightened little cart-pony, will you?"

Orpheus made a noise of still agitated protest, but allowed her to mount up, nonetheless.  Elowyn turned towards Jaedin, who was making his careful way towards his own horse.  The Dark Lord, she noticed, was moving without his usual cat-like grace and elegance.  She frowned a bit, and rode Orpheus over to him.  

Jaedin had knelt beside his stallion's right foreleg, and his fingertips were passing gently over the hock, which was swollen oddly, and caked with mud.  He then looked up at her, frowning, and she also took note of his increased paleness of complexion.

"He's lamed his foot," he murmured. "In that initial rush…" He trailed off, once more, looking back towards the place of the fracas.

Elowyn was silent for a moment; then, she spoke, with deliberate emphasis on each word.  

"Well then," she said. "I suppose that someone will just have to ride double."

And the late afternoon found the party of intrepid, battle-worn adventurers riding on into the forest, each keeping a careful eye out for any other signs of fearsome predators that might have had a mind to attack them.  Elowyn rode double with Jaedin: Orpheus had not been entirely happy to have the dark figure whom he so much despised in the saddle along with his beloved mistress.  But this had been a null and void argument between princess and Pegasus.  

Even at that, Jaedin was not out for trouble this night.  His brush with the harpies and his strangely weakened state – which only he knew the reason behind – had left him almost entirely silent, and very, very tired.  

As they rode along, the gentle rolling stride of the Pegasus had him all but lulled to sleep, and the perfect, slender warmth of the princess's body against his, as she sat in front of him on the saddle, in control of the reins, was both soothing and reassuring.  He let his head drop a bit, until his chin was nearly resting on her straight, fine-boned shoulder; her silky golden hair brushed against his cheek, and he was treated with the soft fragrance of chamomile and neroli.  

Her jaw line, her neck – they were both so close to him, within touching distance; all he had to do was reach out…

But he didn't.

Oddly enough, for the first time in all his dealings with the Princess Elowyn, he didn't want to menace her, or attempt to win her over by power of persuasive seduction or force.  Perhaps this was because she had shown kindness to him…  

_No,_ he thought, abruptly shaking this out of his mind.  Kindness had never had any effect on _him_.  Then perhaps it was because of his promise…_he couldn't turn his hand against her…_

The forest seemed to take on a strange new quality then, as they rode on: the trees, which normally blurred into dark, brown and blue lines and blobs in the shadows, looked as if they were lit by glowing, pale green lights.  The air shimmered with all shades of green, ranging from emerald to jade, and he could see each leaf on every bush, every tree, outlined perfectly.  The canopy of branches seemed as if it had suddenly become much lower, as well…then…

"The star-maiden and her friends look weary – perhaps they would like a cup of tea?"

Elowyn and each of her companions looked up, startled, into the branches over their heads, eyes widening as a new and utterly shocking sight met them there…

*                       *                       *  

A/N:  So, here we have it – a totally spontaneous update, a chapter filled with some rather interesting events.  (But aren't they always…)  Jaedin acts like a brat some more – a complex brat, if you like – Elowyn gets mad, our intrepid adventurers reveal a previously unmentioned affection for tea, and everyone gets into a nasty scrap with some ugly beasties.  What will face them in the forest now – friend, or foe?  I cannot say, of course…until my next update.  Just felt extremely bored and wanted to get this out…enjoy…and thanks to all who have read and reviewed!

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	25. Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty-Two –

The Quest of Legends:

Further Escapades,

Including the Explanation of Pings and Hobknobs, Dreams, Some More Arguments, 

And a Furtive Truce – 

Somewhat

 In a corner of Elvendome, deep within the vast, dark forests that the Sentient beings rarely frequented for fear of the unknown and the perilous, there was to be found a civilization of truly intriguing – albeit quite small – beings.  They were known as Pings and Hobknobs.

They had always lived in this forest, was the story they told their visitors – whenever they had any, which was rarely enough.  And as there were far too many predators and fell beasts for the tiny race to fight off, they had taken to living in the trees: starting from about seven feet above the ground, the forest canopy was filled with hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of intricately built and quite astounding little buildings, connected by bridges and ropes of silvery gossamer, which seemed to glow in the moonlight.  

Now, the Pings and the Hobknobs themselves…they were every bit as interesting to look at as their little arboreal city.  

They seemed to be similar races, their population divided half-in-half between three-foot-tall fox-like beings – Pings – who wore clothing and walked on their hind legs with great efficiency and grace, and bird-like beings – Hobknobs – who affected the same garb and used their wingtips much as a Sentient might use their fingers.  They spoke in a fast-paced, warbling little dialect of their own when together, but also seemed to know the common tongues as well.

As soon as Elowyn, Jaedin, and the rest of their party had looked up, into the trees, they became the first Sentients in many, many hundreds of years to lay eyes upon the Pings and Hobknobs, who immediately introduced themselves.  Within a split second, the exhausted and ragged travelers found themselves surrounded, on all sides, by the laughing, exuberant little creatures, who gently coaxed them – after convincing the group that they would like to be friends and meant no harm – into coming up into their city in the trees and stabling their horses nearby.

The adventurers found that all they could do was comply.

Quickly, they were taken, by about thirty of the little creatures, to the largest building in the midst of the trees.  This place, they were told, was the Great Hall, where their governor – one Lord Guildar – would _very_ much like to have a word of greeting with them.  

It was hard to suspect such tiny and apparently kindly little beings of treachery, although Jaedin eyed the silvery structures about him with high apprehension in his gray eyes.  

Elowyn, silently, fell back a bit and wordlessly put her arm through his.  

The Dark Lord glanced at her, briefly: questions in the line between his arching brows, but all she did was return his gaze for a brief moment, and then lead them both on.

Upon entering the Great Hall – the vaulted ceiling of which was just a scant two feet above Jaedin's head, its doorway even lower – they were greeted effusively by a Ping garbed in bright green and yellow robes, with a tall sort of crown-like hat on his head.  His ears stuck out comically on either side of it.  He approached Elowyn first, bowing low as he took her hand in his diminutive paws.  At her side, Elowyn saw Jaedin eyeing the Ping askance.  

She barely kept from laughing outright.

"Greetings, travelers from the distant lands in the east," Lord Guildar began, standing back to smile at them, in his fox-like way.  

Robbie and Sala bit back bursts of hearty, truly amused laughter.  Their mirth wasn't malicious at all, and for some odd reason, they all felt that their hosts probably would have enjoyed their laughter, but still…first impressions did mean something…

"I am, as you no doubt have already guessed by now, Lord Guildar.  I govern the ranks of the Pings and Hobknobs whom you have stumbled upon here in the woods."

"And it _was_ a great surprise, believe me, milord," Elowyn said, stepping forward to address him, making herself prominent in the midst of her friends. "I am Princess Elowyn of Avalennon, and these are my comrades and traveling companions – Lord Brendan," Her uncle bowed, shortly; he glanced at her quickly and shook his head, signaling that his tracing spell for dark powers had come clean – the Pings could be trusted.  

Elowyn mentally sighed, and went on with the introductions, gesturing to each of those with her as she did so. 

"And Prince Robeneron, of Lærelin; Lady Salamaïre of Valset, and…" 

She hesitated, not sure what to call Jaedin. 

"And our guide, Jaedin."  "You have no country?" Guildar asked, looking incredulously at Jaedin.  The Ping had to crane his head _way_ back to look up at the Dark Lord.

Jaedin's reply was cool and aloof, and give-nothing.

"I am a sojourner – I go where I please, and my only true home is in the winds."

Guildar chuckled at this, as if Jaedin had just told some astoundingly funny joke, and circled around in front of them again, the hem of his robe trailing on the ground behind him in a bizarre mix of the comical and the elegant.  Elowyn held back a laugh.

"Well, then," Guildar said suddenly, "It appears as if you are _all_ travelers, and well-worn ones at that; and by what I can tell, you've had a bit of a run-in with our most cherished neighbors, the harpies.  I hope you've not lost any limbs to the nasty brutes?"

Elowyn shook her head, a grim smile curving her mouth.

"Not exactly, but we are – as you've noted – a bit worse for wear.  His horse," with a gesture towards Jaedin, "lamed its foot, and we were just setting out to ride for the nearest city.  You couldn't tell us which way to go, by any chance, could you?"

And she looked beseechingly at the Ping.  

Guildar quivered a bit, as if with barely contained energy, and all at once, he burst out in an enthusiastic torrent of, "Oh no!  No, _indeed_!  When we asked you if you all wanted to come in for some tea, we said it and we meant it!  Oh no, my dear traveling friends – you've just been invited for a stay in our village, _Toknok-Redura-Ortel_, and we'd be most hurt if you decline to at _least_ join us for a good cup of Darjeeling."

Elowyn glanced at her friends, and began to smile.

"Do you make scones?"

*                       *                       *

Over tea, Guildar regaled them all with the history of the Pings and Hobknobs' existence, anecdotes from its early days and more recent events, and entertained them very highly: so much, in fact, that they all almost quite forgot their past weariness.  

The room that they had been led into – the tearoom – was decorated all in dark blue and pale rosy pink, and gold, with flecks of a bright, turquoise-green here and there to break up the pattern.  The Pings and the Hobknobs, being a race that did not grow to a height of over three feet, had rather smallish furniture, which was a bit of an inconvenience for the much taller faeries, and a blatant _annoyance_ to their vampyre guide; but they managed, however, on large cushions and pillows.  They looked for the entire world as if they were reclining at some exotic royal banquet.

At length, Guildar set his empty cup of tea down and clapped his paws together.  Instantly, the doors at the other end of the room were swung open, and five Pings and Hobknobs appeared, awaiting orders.  Guildar made an imperious gesture towards their guests.

"Our friends here are much tired from their excursion and need to be properly attended to," he said. "Take them off to the most accommodating quarters we have here – whatever you can find – and then for good Fates' sake, _please_ see if you can find them some wearable clothing!  I can't think why I hadn't offered that in the first place – my head must have just fallen off." 

He apologized with these words, one paw on that particular appendage – his head –, the other placed over Elowyn's hand.  The faery princess beamed at him, and it was clear that anyone would immediately become arrested with the obsessive desire to do whatever she wanted, when given that smile.  

She looked – indeed – just like a star fallen from the heavens and embodied in faery form: the softly glowing light from the little lanterns hanging in the roof fell upon her hair, making it seem to shimmer and sparkle like pale gold sunbeams, as her eyes lit and her smile split her face.

"Guildar," she said to him, consolingly, "But you've already done so much for us; I can't thank you enough for putting us up for the night."

"Stay as long as you wish, Princess," the Ping told her, with a smile back. "We are honoured to have you, and your friends, here with us."

Jaedin, having watched this entire exchange – and having been utterly silent all during teatime – suddenly got to his feet, moving towards the door after the servants that Guildar had summoned in order to take them to their rooms.  Elowyn took her eyes from her new friend and looked up and across the room to him.  The Dark Lord paused at the doorway, half turning towards her, and their gazes met, and locked.  His lips moved, forming words, but he made no sound.

But she heard it in her head…

_Merron nenein._

And then he was gone.  

Elowyn turned back to Guildar, rising to her feet with her three companions.  "Thank you again, Guildar," she said, softly. "Until dinner, then?"

"Until then, Princess." was the reply.

They turned and left.

*                       *                       *

Elowyn pulled the dress that their hosts had given her on over her head, biting her lower lip as she frowned in deep thought.  Suddenly, she was having a world of new thoughts concerning a certain Dark Lord, and they were thoughts that she knew were clearly against everything that she had ever believed, ever told herself, ever been taught.  Boundaries were being crossed…

Yet she didn't want to have to think about it now.

_Cross that bridge when you come to it, Elowyn,_ she told herself.

Then, adjusting the filmy little sleeves of the gown, she went for the door, and stepped into the cool forest twilight.  

The servants had given them all new clothing, which fit surprisingly well considering the faeries' and vampyre's comparatively immense size.  She guessed that they had been made, special, that afternoon in order to accommodate the guests.  

She now wore a truly lovable and amazingly comfortable little gown, which had a solid under-layer of pale yellow-green silk, and a sheath of delicately embroidered sheer material of the same hue, which slid and moved silkily against her skin.  Its hem reached only to a little past her knees, flaring out prettily around her legs, but its drawstring, scooped neckline was slightly more fitted, as were the slightly puffed cap sleeves.  

In her hair, she wore a set of combs that were encrusted with citrine, topaz, and pale yellow diamonds; these were her only adornments, and she looked unknowingly, utterly ravishing as she stood there on the walkway in the trees.   

Through the forest filtered the soft, hazy ambience of the setting sun, and she could hear the twittering, last songs of the birds as they flew through the air and sought roosting places for the night.  

_Birds… _

She shuddered, briefly, at the memory of another winged creature: the harpies that had attacked them that afternoon.  Reaching up, she brushed the fingertips of one hand over her bare throat, remembering how terribly close one harpy's talons had come to ripping her very vocal cords out…until Jaedin had intervened.

_Without him, I would have been dead, more than twice over now._

At this thought, she started: suddenly becoming aware of another presence on the sweeping stretch of terrace that fronted the building where she had bathed and changed her raiment.  A brisk breeze came frisking around the side of the tree behind her, stirring the skirts of her chartreuse-silk gown and playing with the loose curls of her hair, and she turned, looking out.

A little ways off from her, silently and broodingly contemplating the same sunset that she had been so admiring, was the tall, dark, and rather grim figure of the Dark Lord of Sytherria.  He, also, wore new raiment: a gift of the Pings, only his attire was, unlike hers, mostly black velvet again.  The only relief from this in the outfit was his undershirt of deep turquoise-green, which showed itself briefly at the high collar, and then from his elbows to his wrists.  

Elowyn remained where she was for a moment, studying him.  

Then, at length, she joined him at the ledge of the balcony, and stood at his side, silent and contemplative as well.  Finally, "When we leave here…you'll not be forbidden from taking more than three steps away from me anymore.  I…" 

She hesitated, unsure of how to say her next words without misrepresenting what she meant by them.  Jaedin turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow raised and slightly quirked, which didn't help with her self-consciousness anyway.  Elowyn briefly called herself a dozen and a half names in ancient faery, and then spoke. 

"I…disapprove of having things chained…which might have otherwise been free."

With that, she at last looked up at him, and a flicker of something dark and sad went through her eyes.  She had let him see it, he realized, and only _he_ could have. 

"You didn't have to come back," she told him, her voice barely above a whisper, as they stood there, together, in the twilight. "You didn't have to save my life."

There was no question in her tone.

Jaedin exhaled – long and slow – and reached out a hand to her, brushing his gloved fingertips against her cheek.  He looked deep and searchingly into her eyes.

"I know," he said.

"Elowyn!  Come on now – we're going in to dinner…" called Brendan's voice, from a distance off, and the princess pulled back, hastily, from the Dark Lord – seeming disappointed at the shattering of their moment.  

Jaedin gazed at her as she lifted her hand to the necklace and pendant that hung at her throat, his eyes never leaving her.  And then, wordless, he stepped around – half to her side, half in front of her – and offered her his arm.

Together, they moved off towards those who awaited them.

*                       *                       *

Upon entering the Ping-and-Hobknob-sized dining hall, Jaedin saw that his companions were already seating themselves: Elowyn was promptly taken from him, by Guildar, and escorted into the chair at the right-hand of head chair, with Sala sitting next to her, and a brightly-plumaged Hobknob sitting across from them.  Brendan and Robbie were a little further down the table, on the left, and around twelve Pings and Hobknobs were also present.  

Jaedin didn't look at the princess as he took his seat, far down the table on the right.  He was too deeply wrapped up in his own thoughts to think of anything else.

Dinner was served, and everyone began to eat, conversing politely all the while with the faery guests.  Jaedin eyed the plate in front of him with distaste.  Vampyres had remarkably carnivorous tendencies; although they did _not_, as some people had been led to believe, drink blood, the race preferred a less vegetarian diet than the others like it.  

The Pings and Hobknobs, he realized, were exactly _that_ – vegetarian.  

Everything he saw before him was utterly devoid of any kind of meat.  There was a green-tinted soup, with huge chunks of carrots and potatoes in it; there was several varieties of steamed squash, multi-coloured fruit concoctions…but no meat.  

And the soup that he had right in front of him…

Jaedin stood up suddenly, feeling a bit nauseous.

_Garlic,_ he thought.  _I _hate_ garlic._

He pushed the tiny chair that he had somehow managed to position himself on back against the table, and silently walked down the row of banquet guests, heading for the door.  If _this_ was going to be what kind of food the people around this place ate, he resolved, he could go without eating.  He would have to adapt, just as he had had to find a way of surviving the hours of traveling underneath the sun with his captors.  

Yet his stomach turned, noisily protesting at his lack of attention to it.  Jaedin stepped out onto the terrace, wrapping one arm about his torso, and glared up into the star-filled night sky with acrimony in his gray eyes.

It was times like these that tempted him to think that Fate had decided to be forever unfair to him.  Times like these…

Behind him, the banquet went on, and almost an hour later, he sensed her presence at his back.  Without turning, he gestured to the stars, which he had been studying intently for all that time.  

"_Rhiara_," he said, dispassionately, as if stating a mere, dry fact. "The Green Dragon of the South – she will be ahead of us all the time, if we keep our course straight."

Elowyn came to stand beside him once more, and out of the corner of his eye, he looked at her, speculatively.  That gown looked absolutely lovely on her, and the velvety blush that the heat of the close-walled banquet hall, filled with people, had brought to her cheeks only added to her sheer, unparalleled beauty.  If only he didn't have to think about the treachery that that silver necklace would afford him…  Just then, as he thought this, she held something out to him.

"You should eat _something_," she told him.

The Dark Lord took the disk-shaped, smallish wafer that she had handed to him between his fingers and eyed it, as if in skepticism.  

"What _is_ it?" he asked.

Elowyn looked slightly incredulous for a moment, in the darkness.

"It's a chocolate chip cookie," she then informed him.  And, at his still-skeptical raised eyebrow and half-smirk, she continued, "The _only_ proper traveler's fare."

Jaedin turned his gaze back on the object he held in his hand.

"And I'm supposed to _eat_ this…?" he questioned, and then – totally shocking to him – she laughed: clear, ringing, and utterly amused.

"You don't have to imply that I'm such a bad cook."

He shrugged, although his eyes sparkled with inner pleasure.

"I'm The Villain," he told her. "Insults are part of my contract."

But inwardly, his mind was reeling with the thoughts of: _How can this be?  I am standing here, with her beside me, and she is laughing and talking to me as if nothing had ever happened between us before – as if she could not ever fear me, and as if I was never anything to her…_

At this, he straightened, and continued in a more serious vein of conversation.

"_Rhiara_," he repeated, gesturing to the constellation: a dragon-shaped form with a single green star as its eye, gleaming at them from within the velvety blue-black nighttime sky. "As we near the Dark Gate, she will be ever more over our heads.  We are, I think…" 

He tilted his head to one side, gray eyes scrutinizing the stellar dragon coolly, objectively. 

"We have about a three-weeks journey ahead of us from here, to the Dark Gate, if I don't miss my guess.  And I rarely _do_," he added, expecting a sarcastic look or remark from her.  

He got none, however; Elowyn wasn't looking at him.  Trying to see her face, he asked, "Now – does this news please or _vex_ the princess?"

Elowyn leaned forward, resting her elbows on the ledge before them, and her eyes took on a distant, pensive cast: sparkling when the light happened to glance upon them.  Jaedin stood still, next to her, and waited.  The night breeze whirled around them, silently.

"Completing this quest will please me…" she finally said. "Knowing that everyone I know and love is safe is the only thing that will ease the trouble in my heart."

"How long do we have?"

Elowyn, had she taken notice of his use of the word '_we_', would have reacted with surprise and stinging disbelief: the reaction he would have _deserved_, and Jaedin counted it as only a slip in the steps of Fate that she had not marked it.  

"The spell can only be activated – put into use – on a certain night of the year.  When the moon is at half-phase, and all the constellations have aligned themselves in the exact positions of a clock: twelve, one, two, three, and so on…only _then_ can the words of the spell be spoken, in order to bring it to life.  And even at that point in time, there are a _thousand_ different acts that must be carried out first, before the words can be uttered…otherwise, nothing can be done."

She looked at him.

"_We_ have three weeks and a day until your Queen will be able to act, to the ruin of us all."

Jaedin shook his head, a dark look coming over his proud, sharp features.

"Not my Queen," he murmured. "_Never again_."

He felt her stir at his side, and looked down, calmly, into the face of the one who so tormented his being with thoughts of her – in his each waking and sleeping hour – feeling his heart speed up a beat or two faster as he looked into her gorgeous eyes of jade, dark now in the shadows that surrounded them.  Elowyn's expression was one of bewilderment, and of fear.

"Never…" she murmured.  

Then, she turned away from him – again – and moved off towards the building where the room that she was to share with her cousin that night was located.  Jaedin followed her with his eyes, the wind brushing softly against the fullness of his black velvet sleeves, racing more briskly across the bare skin of his scalp.

"Good night, Dark One." 

Her voice drifted through the air to him, and he wanted to reach out and grasp her words, for only in this – he knew – could he ever have anything that she would willingly give him.

"Sweet dreams, Princess…"

And then she was gone.  

Jaedin turned back to his contemplation of the dark forest, seeing the pale green glow of the village's lanterns sparkling in the trees like stars fallen from the heavens, floating about in the void of earth.  After a moment, he heard a step from behind him, and silently faced the Prince Robeneron, who was watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Isn't it a bit past your bedtime, young prince?" Jaedin asked, his voice like breaking ice.

 "I'm considering it," Robbie replied, guarded and careful. "And you—" he gestured vaguely towards the Dark Lord, "—Don't _you_ ever sleep?"

"For me, the insomnia is permanent." Jaedin told him, fingers working in and out of fists at his sides, where Robbie couldn't see them. "I'm a bloody vampyre."

"Apparently.  You didn't enjoy dinner tonight?"

Jaedin's eyes narrowed – he knew, without a second thought, that his vampyric inhibitions were not why Robbie had come out to speak with him.  

_There was something else…_

"A trivial matter," he said, coldly. "What do you really want to say to me, Prince?"

Toying with words and stabbing barely-veiled rapiers of threats at one another, they both knew, was merely wasting time.  If there was an issue to be dealt with between them, it was best if Dark Lord and prince spoke without subterfuge. 

"I _want_ you to stay away from the Princess Elowyn, you blood-sucking freak."

Jaedin's full lips moved a bit, in the flickering semblance of a cynical, dry little smirk. 

"I don't suck blood," he revealed, lightly.  He took a few steps to the side, and then looked back at Robbie, speculatively. 

"So," he said. "I see that you know something about my race, your Highness – including about its inherent _weaknesses_.  And, as I have gathered, you've known of it for some time; but tell me, did the Princess inform you herself of what effect a particular precious metal has upon me, and others like me, or did you simply take the time to look it up yourself?"

Robbie would not take the bait, would not follow off on a tangent of sarcasm. 

"It doesn't matter."

"Then enlighten me now…" 

Jaedin's tone was a low, musing purr.  He studied his hands, as if looking for defects in the smooth black leather of the gloves that he wore, casual as if he were discussing that day's weather at a picnic. 

"As we are on the subject of such things…why does the Princess so prize the chain and pendant that she always wears upon her neck?  I attempted to entice her with jewels myself, but she seems rather stuck on the simple thing…"

Robbie's blue eyes began to snap with anger.  "That '_simple thing_', he hissed, furiously, stepping forward, towards the Dark Lord, "was a gift from her parents, upon her birth.  It is the only thing that she has left of them."

Jaedin imitated surprise, derisively.

"The only thing that she has left of her parents?" he queried, raising his dark eyebrows. "They _are_ living yet, are they not?"

"No." Robbie snapped. "She is the adoptive daughter of Orandor and Vahlada – her true parents, Diarnan and Lhanallis, were killed many years ago."

"Killed? How?" Jaedin kept his questions short and clipped. "How did it happen?"

Robbie frowned, suspicious of the Dark Lord's sudden interest in Elowyn's past, in the tragic deaths of her parents.  _Surely…_ he thought.  

"Why is it so imperative that you know?"  

Jaedin shrugged, his gray eyes fixing on his enemy coolly and appraisingly, and replied, "It _isn't_.  But I asked you a question, and I expect to have it answered."

"Well then, I suppose that you'll just have to accustom yourself to _disappointment_."

And Robbie turned to walk away again, coldly.  The Dark Lord's voice, however, followed behind him, and halted him in his tracks.

"Why are you so afraid?"

Robbie ground to a halt, a muscle working in his jaw, and then he whirled around, no longer content to remain silent.  So Jaedin wanted to know just what had happened to Elowyn's parents?  Then he'd hear the full story – condemning truth and all! 

His reply resounded into the Dark Lord's mind.

"They were _murdered_: slain, without cause, by _your_ beloved Ebony Queen.  Of all people, _you_ ought to remember that, Jaedin of Sytherria – it was only seventeen years ago.  You were most likely _there_ when it happened."

Robbie, if he had had any previous experience with the Dark Lord's temper, might have considered himself very fortunate indeed that he hadn't immediately lost his life – or at least a limb – because of his scathing words that particular afternoon.  Jaedin glared at the prince, allowing his immense irritation to clearly show through in his proud features: the lightning of his fury snapping in his gray eyes.  But, for whatever reason, he did not strike back in violence.

"I was _not_ there, Prince Robeneron," he replied, in a cold, hard tone that was incredibly even and controlled – stiff and severe as his stance at the moment. "And whatever the lies are that you have been fed all your life and learned to believe, know _this_ – the Dark Realm does _nothing_ without cause."

"And Diarnan and Lhanallis did _nothing_ to warrant their deaths!" Robbie countered.

Jaedin scoffed, coldly, cruelly.  

"Not _them_," he said, putting specific emphasis on that second word; beginning to circle slowly and deliberately around the young man like a tiger on the prowl, hemming him in on every side as he eyed him darkly. "Not them – _the White Realm_." And here he assumed a tone that was indifferent and cruel in its unfeeling informative tenor: "You see, here you have my confession: I can _never_ pity you, or any of those like you, for your losses – for what damages you have had, you have incurred upon _yourselves_."

Livid, Robbie snapped, "I'd like an explanation of that!"

The storm broke, in all its long-festered, acrid fury.

"An _explanation_?" snarled Jaedin, rounding on him: his sudden, sharp movement caused his garments to whirl around him, making him seem even more imposing, even more ominous and bat-like, than ever before.  His handsome features twisted into an expression of feral, ancient and bitter rage, exposing his curved incisors much like a dragon's hiss would. 

"You think to even _dare_ demand such a thing of me?  Do you really want to know of what it is that dooms your race to eternal death and suffering?  Then hear now this – _my_ reason!  The single thing that caused me to turn to the Ebony Queen and enter into her service: to give her not only my loyalty but my life and my eternal soul as well, to become a Dark Lord feared and despised of all, was your White Realm!  You accuse me and those like me of treacheries worse than the greatest of authors could imagine – but the truth is hidden from your eyes, which you yourselves have blinded!  I became the Dark Lord because the White Realm murdered_ my family_ in cold blood!"

There: the blow was dealt.  

Robbie stared at him, with a mix of revulsion, disbelief, and horror in his ice-blue eyes, while Jaedin stood back, trying desperately to steady the heaving of his lungs.

"_Yes_." he hissed, acrimoniously. "Yes, you heard me rightly, young prince – I, the Dark Lord of Sytherria, once had a family, had parents, just like your princess: I had a mother and father, brothers and sisters, cousins and other kin, whom I will now _never know_ save through my living to claim vengeance for their deaths."

"That isn't _true_." 

Robbie could hardly recognize his own voice, which seemed alien and strange in his own ears, unfamiliar and distant through the whirling of his mind.  What had he just told the Dark Lord?  He had revealed Elowyn's past…and learnt of a secret of the Dark Lord himself!  _The Dark Lord had a past akin to the faery Princess…_

All he could do was stand and shake: wide-eyed and suddenly bereft of strength.

Jaedin looked back at his enemy with hatred and loathing clearly written on his face.  Suddenly, it seemed as if all of his memories, his recollections and knowledge of hundreds of thousands of years past, was coming to the surface, and showing through in the depths of his amethyst-flecked, silvery eyes.  

Here, now, was a denizen of the ancient millennia, who still lived in a world that he would ever despise: rendered bitter and cold with rage…

"The White Realm never murdered anyone; it isn't possible."

"Then explain _me_." Jaedin snarled, and left him.

*                       *                       *

He didn't stop in his tearing pace until he had made his way far from the central part of the Pings and Hobknobs' village.  The whirling of his mind wouldn't have permitted him the time to have such a thought – of pausing – and when he finally found himself able to have coherent contemplations again, he had nearly reached the outskirts of the city.

There, he halted.

It was late in the evening by now: behind him, he could hear the tiny voices of the Pings and Hobknobs as they hurried here and there, on various errands, while the pale moon and starlight filtered through the trees.  The air beneath the canopy of the thick trees branches was cool, and everywhere the vivid green of the forest glowed at him, like a sea of jade, emerald, turquoise, and peridot.  The whispering of the wind came to him then, and he sensed the peace around him.

_Peace that would never be a part of his soul…_

At the thought of this, he made a mocking, embittered little face towards his own folly: all of his shattered hopes and dreams, as if a Dark Lord could even have such things.

_Hope – dreaming – is just about as much a part of you, Jaedin of Sytherria, as peace – they are all three things that you will _never_ attain, and cannot therefore truly desire…_

Suddenly, gray eyes snapped open: glaring.

"I _won't_ be defeated," he savagely told himself, as he buried his face in his gloved hands, fingertips pressing – hard, oppressively – into his bare skull through the leather that shielded them. "I will not be overcome; I will _not_ be defeated.  There is more to my world than _that_."

But what had he just done?  He had told the prince of Lærelin one of the secrets that he almost never spoke of, under normal circumstances!  Hardly even a handful of his own subjects knew of that part of his past – the death of his family at the hands of the White Realm.  

He himself hadn't known of it until he was nearly eighteen years old.  

Then, the Queen had revealed to him the truth: she was not his mother, or in any way related to him.  Somehow, the White Realm had decided that his family was a threat to itself, and their death warrant had been made.  Everyone – his mother, father, sisters, brothers, everyone – had been slain in one savage, mass attack, and only a seventeen-year-old Jaedin had miraculously survived.  The Queen had found him: unconscious and severely wounded, in the charred ruins of what had once been his home.  

From that day on, she had treated him as if he was her own: as if he was her son, until the day came when he was at last fully recovered from his wounds, and she had deemed him ready to hear the truth of his heritage.  And on _that_ day, Jaedin had sworn a vow of vengeance – if it took him all of eternity, he would avenge the obliteration of his innocent family.

Then, the Dark Lord…

_How odd,_ he now thought, however, _that Elowyn shares this with me; she was left an orphan, bereft of her parents and safety in the world, by the Dark Realm – or so they all claim – while the same was done to me by the White Realm._

It was yet another link that somehow served to tie him to her: already, he felt himself more and more within her, as her living presence grew ever more within his mind…

She was all he felt connected to in the world at all – she alone, the princess who he desired more than life itself, and whom he would give his heart's blood to have as his own.  She – who represented the only thing that he could never have.  

Ironic, that it should be so.  He was sundered from his Queen, and was now without a country, without a family, without friends or allies or allegiance, save to himself.  

The only thing that held him to this part of the world now was his promise, and – as he slowly pulled back the black velvet sleeve that covered his arm, looking on the faint scar that the knife blade had left upon his forearm – he knew that it would hold him without failing.  His promise had indeed been sealed with blood, and he could not break a blood-oath.

Nor would he.

Only after he had done as he was required, would he turn to his own needs – and those changed with stunning alacrity as it was.  

But there were so many questions within his mind—

What ulterior motives did the Ebony Queen have now?  How far would she go in order to claim what she wanted, and what means would she employ to do so?  And, probing even further – what did the revelation of the similarities between his own past, and that of the faery princess mean?  What if…could there be a connection between the two…?

Jaedin authoritatively forced this thought out of his head.

_No, Dark One,_ he thought to himself with a grim, mordant little smile, shaking his head a bit: _No, that is thinking too far into the black void of uncertainties… _

However, now that the memory of his past had been brought into his mind once again, he found himself increasingly riveted on it: the part of himself that he normally avoided, as it made him more than slightly uneasy when he concentrated on it.

_For Jaedin could not remember anything of those first seventeen years of his life.     _

*                       *                       *

Neither Brendan nor Robbie – who were to share their quarters with Jaedin – saw the vampyre Dark Lord again that night.  

Shortly before dawn, however, he returned to the room that they had been given to sleep in and threw himself into the empty hammock-style bed, without a word to anyone.  When his companions awakened a few hours later, they marked his presence there; there was an unspoken decision made, then, to forego disturbing him, and they left.

As Jaedin's mount was disabled with a lamed foot, their journey was momentarily delayed.  They could not travel without the magnificent coal-black stallion, for Orpheus could not – and furthermore, perhaps, _would not_ – carry two riders.  Especially if one of them happened to be Jaedin.  And so the party was to stay for a short time in the Ping and Hobknob village.

Slowly, the day began to climb to its zenith. 

That afternoon, around two or three hours after luncheon, Jaedin emerged from the bedchamber.  He stood at the doorway for a moment, looking down over the arboreal village with the air of a dispassionate observer and stretching his cramped muscles.  

The look on his face then was one of both irritation and tiredness – the bed that he had been allotted had been made for a sleeper quite a bit smaller than the vampyre, and he hadn't slept very well.  His back made several loud and almost disconcerting popping noises as he flexed it a bit, which caused him to narrow his eyes.  The bedding arrangements, along with his injuries from the harpies – which were beginning to heal now; vampyres recovered quickly from any kind of wound, except for one inflicted by silver – had scarcely served to improve his temper.

Jaedin, being a Dark Lord, had trained himself to ignore pain.  

He had experienced much of it in his life, and had seen it in most, if not _all_, of its forms.  Complaining, surrendering to one's less than resilient side, was something that had always irritated him.  But this morning, he had several excuses for a bad mood…

A walk, he decided, was his best course of action to take, if he wanted to avoid killing somebody.  There was nothing else for him to do, really.

No one took much notice of the tall, black-robed figure with the shaven head and proud, aesthetic features as he passed along the many walkways and stairwells that composed the outside regions of the village in the trees.  Jaedin saw many intricate, artfully made wonders of Ping and Hobknob architecture and décor as he meandered through the place…

But he – in truth – hardly took any note of it.  His mind was sunk into deep contemplation: the patterns of his thought becoming more and more dark and twisted, troubled like the waters of the ocean as a storm approached.

Eventually, he came to the outskirts of the village, and there he stopped.  The quiet, serene golden sunlight came softly through the trees, tingeing the green and silver village with its waning glow.  Birdsong, he heard, and the various other noises of the forest.  

Once again, his mind wandered to the peacefulness of the place, and then it turned inward, to itself, again…

There was a thick, long tree branch nearby: just beyond the railing of a walkway.  The junction between it and the tree trunk itself looked oddly inviting; almost without realizing it, Jaedin went to it, stepped smoothly over the little railing, and eased himself down.  Really, if anyone had been deliberately looking for him, they would have instantly spotted his unrelieved black clothing amongst the vibrant green leaves – but, as it was, nobody was looking for him.

_Nobody at all._

The Dark Lord let his eyes slip halfway closed, and he found himself gazing abstractedly straight into a shaft of sunlight, which had somehow dazzled its way through the trees to run its playful, meandering way over him.  A slight breeze made the leaves rustle, seeming to sing among themselves, and their shadows flickered quickly across his face.  He closed his eyes the rest of the way, leaning his head back against the tree trunk, and withdrew within himself, into the black void of endless, silent yet echoing shadows that were his mind…

_'Jaedin.  Jaedin, please – help us, please help us.  You must save us.'_

_His brow furrowed as he looked on the pair of ghostly gray specters who stood before him: they seemed to waver before his very eyes, as if even the slightest breeze would dissolve them into dust.  There was a woman, with long, ivory-pale hair; she wore a long, unadorned gown and stood with her hands on the shoulders of a small, dark-haired boy, who gazed at Jaedin hopelessly out of his blank, white eyes.  Eyes – they had no eyes.  There was only white within their sockets…_

_He backed away, holding his hands out, as if to shield himself, staring at them in horror._

_'No – no!' he heard himself cry.  His voice seemed to break, and shatter into a million echoes, like a fallen mirror. 'No – I don't know you!  Leave me; I do not know you!'_

_And here they appeared even more saddened than before._

_They began to recede from him, into the dazzling light that surrounded them all, on every side, and he heard the woman's voice, saying to him first—_

_'You do not know us?'_

_Then, the boy's emotionless last call—_

_'If you do not know us, you cannot save us; and if you cannot save us, then our souls are as lost as yours.'_

_Suddenly, he was standing in the midst of the Ebony Queen's court; there was blackness all around him – the throne room, just as he remembered it.  And there he stood, in the very center of the floor, with every citizen of the Dark Realm standing, ring upon ring, around him._

_And they were laughing at him._

_'Silence from you!' he heard his own voice snarl at them, and it sounded like the growl of some feral creature – not his own. 'Have you not done enough?'_

_The Queen: seated in her throne of ebony, high above him, leaned down, and held something towards him – a chain and pendant; the chain was of silver, and the pendant was a shimmering white crystal.  _

_She laughed, coldly and cruelly, with unhidden maliciousness and triumph in her honeyed tones: "There!  Do you see before you what you have come for?  Are you satisfied now, Ríth-Anstarinaor n'et Sytherria?  Bow all, before the great Dark Lord!'_

_He turned to her, features twisting in writhing fury._

_'Where is she?' he demanded of her. 'Where is my princess?  What have you done to her – where have you put her?'_

_The Queen only continued to laugh, but she pointed towards a door at the far end of the chamber, which swung open – at the pull of invisible hands – at her gesture.  _

_Jaedin tore his gaze from her and went for the door, thrusting his way through the crowd of vile peoples and creatures, fighting his way towards that door, clawing like an animal – at last, he reached the door, and fell inside of the room of black malachite and white ivory that was beyond it.  In its very center, upon a dais, was a great white bed: over-canopied by curtains that whipped about in the wind that entered through the chamber's many windows, blowing a cloud of rose petals – their fragrance that of incense, their colour that of blood – about on the floor._

_Relieved beyond measure, in some strange way, he moved towards the bed: feeling as if every last ounce of strength had been drained from his soul and body; only his heart served to keep him alive now.  And he could feel his heart pounding within his chest, its sound thudding in his ears and drowning out everything, threatening to drive him mad—_

_On the bed, sunken into the deep coverlet, lay his sleeping princess: her eyes of jade resting closed, her pale gold curls flung out over the white expanse of her sleeping place, one hand resting just below her bosom.  In it was held a cluster of roses – roses that had been white, but were now almost stained throughout with red…_

_Red the colour of blood – blood which was streaming from her fingertips and palm._

_Jaedin fell onto the edge of the bed, grabbing her hand in his and tearing the roses out of it, flinging them away with a savage passion.  Then, he took the fingers of that hand and pressed them to his lips, kissing her soft, flawless skin over and over again, as if his touch held the power to heal her wounds.  _

_He gazed at her, as he did so: his eyes roving over her perfect beauty.  _

_Elowyn lay there, deep in her sleep – utterly unaware that he who would love her more than anything, more than even she could imagine, was with her: at her side.  There were rose petals scattered about her figure, mingled even in the folds of her gown of white silk, in her hair, cradled in the palm of her other hand.  Her lips were also red as those roses…_

_If this was a dream, a vision of what was real and yet not, could he not afford himself the comfort of kissing her, softly, just this once?  If she would never accept him willingly in the life that they both knew was real, could he not ease the raging pain in his soul at this moment…?_

_Of course…_

_He leaned over her, gazing at her pale features with a gaze that was so tender, so longing and careful that it surely would have broken her heart with pity, had she seen it, and slowly – so very, very slowly – he lowered his head, bringing his lips to hers…_

_It was instant euphoria.  The sweetness of her lips claimed him, mind and all, and he surrendered to the strength of it, knowing that only in this – a dream – could he ever love her this way: in an unbroken kiss.  Waves of emotion assailed he who had been the bane of nations for millennia, he whose very existence depended on the shadows…_

_Then, suddenly, her eyes fluttered open, widened – his eyes shot open as well, as the air in the room became biting and cold, stinging him like a thousand furies; he clapped a hand to his cheek, where the pain had centered – and there felt the rough, decaying skin of an undead specter.  Elowyn's body stiffened in his arms and he tore his lips from hers, ripping himself away from her; she sat up and shrieked, staring at him as if he were of the underworld itself.  _

_He fell to his knees, as horrified at himself as she was – under his hand, he felt the skin of his face wearing away, withering at the contact between a fresh, innocent, and pure child of the light and the black, depraved lord of the darkness; noooo…_

_'No!' he shrieked, collapsing onto the floor, feeling as if he was only a child: terrified and lost in a forest full of howling darkness and wind._

_'NO!'_

_Then her voice came to him again – not that of his beloved, but that of she who had betrayed him, who had pushed him headlong into all of this, from the very beginning—_

_'You will never have her – and she will never love you!  Death – DEATH to you, and all those who follow you!  The powers of evil have claimed your soul, and you will be LOST!'_

_And he fell into the endless pit of blackness, where ghostly gray arms reached out and took hold of him, dragging him down into the depths where only agony and torment existed, cutting him off from the light, the only thing that could save him, the light…_

"_NO_!  _Leave me_!"

And Jaedin awoke, swiping his arms about for his attackers.  Slowly did his consciousness – his grasp of reality – return to him, and even more slowly did his steadiness of breath return.  He swung his head about, looking all around him: he was still sitting up against the tree, the forest surrounding him in all its bright green and contrasting hues.  There was the bridge, the golden sunlight, the flanking arboreal buildings…

He could not banish the trembling from his body.

For long he remained there, trying to calm himself, to wrest the thought of that awful vision from his mind.  It had contained far too much – sights of the unknown, of the present and the future, and so much more…  He shuddered, drawing a hand over his eyes as he recalled the flashes of destruction – fire, blood, and carnage – that had exploded in between the Queen's words to him in that dream, and the feeling of the ghostly fingers on his arms.

Then, his eyes narrowed: the willpower of the Dark Lord had returned.

Zaschaea had lied to him, all along, somehow.  He didn't know how she had done so, but she had, and well.  And now he knew only one thing…

He _had_ to know the truth.

No matter what it took.

He got up, stepped back onto the bridge, and set out in a firm, very determined, very grim, and very purposeful stride back towards the village: gray eyes flashing ominously.

*                       *                       *__

A/N:  (Here things take a rather unexpected turn – Jaedin, having taken note of the fact that Kates has gone off to attend to something else, spots the computer unprotected, and quickly takes a seat.)

J: *pops his knuckles and flexes fingers* And now to get down to business…

(Shinzon appears in the doorway of the computer room, and takes in the whole scene; after a moment, Erik – the Phantom, not the Count d'Auberie – joins him, and they exchange glances.)

S: You know that you are subject to her wrath if you even so much as _think_ of touching this story…

J: *grins* I suppose that it's too late for that, Praetor.  Now, are you two going to help me with this, or do I have to do everything myself?  Shinzon…?

(The Reman Praetor sighs, and concedes to keeping a watch on the door.  Erik the Phantom, meanwhile, merely looks disgusted.)

E: You fantasy characters and your lack of respect for authors.  I wash my hands of you.

J: You're just frightened out of your wits that Kates will take to your mask-collection with the glitter-paint again if you give her any lip.  Go on and leave us – I can manage fully well without you, _Monsieur le Fantôme_.

(Erik glares at him and remains in the room, sitting in a slouch on the sofa, arms crossed.)

E: *through gritting teeth* I _should_ garrote you for that.

J: *already busy typing away, under his breath* But you won't, because you lack anything better to do.  *now in a normal voice* Yes…well…unfortunately…it wouldn't do much good for you, I'm sorry to say…I'm a vampyre, remember?

S: *from the doorway, keeping watch for Kates* I'd suggest making a run for either the silver or the garlic downstairs in the refrigerator, then…

J: That's enough of _that_.  Now will the two of you kindly be silent for _two minutes_ here…bloody Fates…        

Ladies and gentlemen, this section of the _True Hate and True Love_ notes has now been commandeered by the Villain forces.  So, please sit back, and relax – I promise, if you keep a foot back from the line of death, no one will get roasted. 

Um-dee-dum-dee-dum…quick recap here, I suppose.  Our dauntless faery adventurers – and me – go from a near miss with a flock of bloodthirsty harpies to a visit in a village full of three-foot-tall fox- and bird-like beings, known as the Pings and the Hobknobs.  Elowyn makes a sort of 'truce' with me, having grown to trust me (a bit) as I have now saved her life several times; this is true.  I am introduced by her to the wonder of chocolate chip cookies, I get to have a bit of an argument with Robbie, and the reader, at length, finds out a little about my past.  DON'T ASK, I WILL NOT TELL.  Further on…I have a dream and wake up very disturbed, and now I am out to find the truth – whatever that will end up being.

Now, you all tell me if this is confusing…I doubt it'll top the last two or so chapter of _Once Upon A Time_ as far as the baffling-level, but still…

On to notes.

**Rosethorn:**  Well of course I'm a spoiled brat, and more than a slight spoiled brat.  But that's what makes me such a fun person, now isn't it?  Come on, you know it's true…  ^_~

**Gryffindor-Gal3:**  In the way of making a serious reply for Kates, who is not here at the moment, a complex hero/villain is a much more fun character to deal with than your black-and-white hero or villain.  That, I think, is why Shinzon, Erik, and I get along so well.  All right, fine…_most_ of the time.  And believe me, Kates has delved quite far into the study of multi-faceted villains…and a turning point in my life?  Mmm…we shall soon find out. *winks*  Anyways.  Oh, and don't worry – Elowyn and I will stop fooling around quite soon here, doubt it not.  Things will be getting very interesting very shortly.

**DarkSlytherinAngel:** Well, I suppose I should be nice now…Hope your computer has recovered, as we are all eagerly awaiting new segments to your story.  ^_^ And when do we actually get to meet the aforementioned Bad Guy in it?  We Dark Lords like to hang out, sometimes, you see…

**Gloria-Krasy:** (Kates left this one, and so I will behave myself and add it in; from her, then…) Thank you so much for your lovely review, and I am so glad that you've been enjoying the story so far.  It's been so much fun writing it, as it is quite different from any of my others.  Namely, in that I have a villain as my hero – which is a challenge in and of itself.  Strangely enough, no matter how horridly he behaves, everyone still seems to like him…

More notes to come in the next chapter, provided that Erik, Shinzon, and I aren't running for our lives—

E: Ha!  Provided that you and Shinzon – but namely, _you_ – aren't running for your lives.

J: *coolly* Thank you, OG.  _Sparkle paint…_

E: O_o

J:  And my greatest thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far!  Now do read on…  

   __

  


	26. Chapter TwentyThree

Chapter Twenty-Three –

Interim:

The Mind of a Dark Lord__

Brendan shook his head, slowly and warily.

"I've no real idea if it will work," he said, in his grim, world-weary tone. "A foray into another's mind requires a vast amount of power, along with the right level of skill – if _either_ of us wavered for even a _moment_, there is no telling what might happen when the spell recoils."

"I am willing to hazard that," said his companion.

The faery lord looked deep, searching, into the intense gray eyes of the one who stood beside him.  His mind registered the sight of that tall, slender, perfectly-built body and recognized it, but the things that he saw spiraling inside of those eyes…  The realm of the mind was far too infinite, far too shadow-cloaked and many-sided, to step into carelessly.  The slightest wrong turn could result in a plunge into insanity, or death – even for an immortal.

He sighed.

"You seem willing to hazard much, _Ríth-Anstarinaor_," he said then.  He raised one hand and put it to the back on his neck, rubbing it tiredly as he once again eyed his companion. "How may I be certain of what you _really_ want?"

Jaedin's full lips flickered in the traces of a faint, bitter smile.

"I would not worry myself overly much about that, Lord Brendan," he replied.  Brendan suddenly caught a wavering in the hard mask that the Dark Lord wore over his features, and glimpsed the raw edges of an old and painful wound.  When he looked closely – but ever so guardedly – at the face of the one who stood before him, he took note of several things: the slight pinch in the creases of the eyes, at the smile of their owner; the tired shadows that came and went in the eyes themselves, in the features of the face.  The Dark Lord had an overall strange and unfamiliar air about him, which greatly disturbed Brendan.

_What exactly was he being asked to delve into…?_

As if he had read the faery nobleman's mind – and read it all too well – Jaedin stepped forward, holding out a long, gloved hand with an elegant unfurling of the wrist and fingers.  As he spoke, it seemed as if he was merely a guest at a banquet, addressing another guest.  Even his smile: soft, engaging, and extremely cordial, reflected an air of affability.

"You really needn't worry," Jaedin assured him. _Ever the charmer – and only now I recall that I ought to ever keep a watch on him when he is in Elowyn's company,_ Brendan thought, with belated chagrin. "I will not ask of you anything that will rebound on you, or any of those with you.  All I seek is…" 

And he trailed off.

Knowing quite well the Dark Lord's penchant for question-and-answer games, Brendan decided that he might as well play the game.

"Is what?" he asked.

Jaedin's smile widened, exposing his vampyre teeth.

"Answers, Lord Brendan," he said. "All I seek is _answers_." 

*                       *                       *

It had been late afternoon when Jaedin had come to find Brendan and they had made their bargain within the hour of their meeting.  Jaedin, it was revealed, wished to uncover the past that he could not remember, and Brendan was the only other member of their party who had the skills and experience sufficient to aid him.  

And to aid him, they would have to bring into being a magical act of truly cowing power, the kind of power that was under no circumstances to be taken lightly…

Sunset fell over the forest, and the group of travelers all crowded themselves into the Ping- and Hobknob-sized sitting room of the village's manor – reserved for the 'government' members, as it were – and took their respective positions.  

Jaedin and Brendan sat across from one another at the room's single, circle-cut table: hands laid flat on the tabletop, fingertips just touching.  Robbie stood by the door, leaning against its frame, as he eyed the proceedings with immense distrust, dislike, and other more indefinable emotions in his ice-blue eyes, and written across his face.  Sala and Elowyn sat together to the side of the pair at the table, curled up in the bowl-shaped chair that had been placed by the window for their specific use.  

The lanterns in the room had been dimmed, and only a very few candles were lit, giving the air a hazy, ambient red-gold glow.  Through the window showed a slash of the twilight sky, tainted a vague bluish-purple, with highlights of deep scarlet in the place where the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon.  

All was very quiet.

Brendan rallied the strengths of his mind and set his shoulders in determination.  Then, he looked at Jaedin.  _I cannot understand why I am doing this…I must be mad,_ he thought.

"Are you ready?"

Jaedin nodded, impassively.  He showed no emotion.

"As ever," he replied.

Brendan nodded, and then closed his eyes.  Jaedin did the same, slowly easing himself away from reality as he did so.  

This was a path often-traveled by him: whenever he had wished to correspond with the Queen in previous days, in a way that no one else could know of, or whenever he had simply desired to escape from the world, he had dropped his mind into the void of darkness, where there was no sound or chaos or pain: only darkness.  It was into this place, this realm of the mind, that he now went…only he chose to go deeper this time, past the outward façade of shadows, and into the places beyond them – and Brendan followed.

Robbie, Sala, and Elowyn were completely silent as they watched their friend and their widely distrusted guide enter into a state not terribly unlike unconsciousness.  Although both Brendan and the Dark Lord were still sitting straight up, at the table, all three of the younger faeries knew that they were far from sleep, or anything like it.  There was no correct word to describe it – all they knew was what was going on, at the moment.  

Jaedin wished to know about his past, the past that he could not remember; he had asked Brendan to help him recover it, as the memory was surely hidden somewhere in his consciousness.  A linking spell, they all knew full well, enabled two minds to touch upon one another, and a careful wielding of the second mind – the mind that had entered the other – would allow its owner to see into the soul of the first.

Or – more importantly – its _memory_.

Robbie shook his head, his distrustful gaze fixed upon Jaedin.

"This isn't right," he muttered, and both of his companions could easily recognize the depths of anger within him: fairly vibrating from him.  

In a different place and time, Robbie's father, Arin, had nearly been destroyed by one of the Dark Lord's own contemporaries, a sorcerer long since conquered by the forces of good.  Now, being faced by one of evil's foremost captains, Robbie could scarcely react any other way – he and Jaedin quite obviously despised each other, although Elowyn did not know how this had progressed, and they would not willingly be comrades.

"This isn't right," Robbie said again: this time, almost in a whisper.  He glared at Jaedin, his ice-blue eyes strangely bright. "I don't like it at all."

"Robbie." 

Elowyn murmured his name softly, wanting to get up and walk over to the young prince, and take him in her arms to comfort him with her embrace.  But, as it was, she could not – moving would break the fragile connection between the minds of her uncle and their guide, which could result in much danger for the two.  Linking spells were not things to be toyed with.

And so she remained where she was.

Sala observed the still figures sitting at the table before her for a moment longer, with observant hazel eyes; then, she remarked, "What do you think he is looking for?"

Elowyn knew, without even thinking about it, that she was asking about what Jaedin was searching for – not Brendan.  Somehow, it wasn't even a question.  She shook her head.

"I don't know," she murmured. "He's such a mystery, Sala – no matter how many times his mind has touched upon mine, and no matter what secrets I seem to stumble upon, I don't feel as if I will ever know anything of him.  He only lets me see what he wants me to."

"But he lets you _see_," was her cousin's incisive reply. 

Elowyn never took her eyes off of the black-velvet-garbed figure in front of her: her gaze roving freely over the proud, prominent features, the hooded eyes and scarred lip, the chiseled chin and clouded eyebrows, and shaven scalp.

_Perhaps he will let Brendan reach into his mind, and perhaps Brendan will be able to uncover this part of his mind for him…_ she thought.  

_And then what?_ the voice of her mind asked her.  _Will he, the lord of all the shadows, be pleased enough with that to give you all his total and unadulterated aid?  Will you at long last be able to trust him, or will this cause only an even greater need for fear and doubt?  This is a Dark Lord that you are facing, here._

"He is without anyone.  He is alone."

She felt Sala's perturbed gaze on the side of her head, but did not look back.  She could not bring herself to lift her eyes from the floor beneath her feet – she felt her cheeks burning, stained with a fiery blush at the words that her own lips, her own voice, had just brought into being.

Meanwhile…

When Jaedin had asked Brendan to enter his mind through a linking spell, and then seek out the distant, well-hidden memory of his past, Brendan had been uncertain of the whole ordeal.  

How, by the Fates, was _he_ to know that this wasn't some sort of trick?  The Dark Lord could easily trap a faery's mind within his, dooming his victim to eternal wandering in the void, the death of his soul.  And if this was not the case – what did he want to know?  What was he looking for?  The memory of one's past was something that all creatures had, to some extent…but what was it that Jaedin sought within that memory?  From what Brendan had seen thus far, the Dark Lord did almost nothing without…ulterior motives…

The first glimpse that he had of the Dark Lord's mind was the typical blank space – although this place was a silent and black, unlike the usual white, ringing void.  The Dark Lord guarded his mind very well; however, Brendan could sense the faint traces of someone's past presence, here and there, like fading burn marks on a wall.  Someone had almost literally engraved her presence upon the Dark Lord's mind: she had penetrated the shadows, if only for a moment.  _A flash of white, of memory…_

Brendan pressed on, concealing the ripple of unease that went through him at that last.  He had a task to carry out – if it was memory that the Dark Lord was in search of, it was memory that he would uncover.

It would take a monumentally long time, however – the Dark Lord had been in existence for many, many thousands of years, and only after Brendan had managed to slip past the outer guards of his mind would he be able to see through the shadows…

After much careful coaxing and prodding, though, Brendan at last found a weak spot.  Quite obviously, Jaedin had already descended into the deeper realms of his mind, leaving a sort of path for Brendan to follow, as he searched.  _My utmost thanks, Dark Lord,_ he thought.

Then, as an echo from the black void back to him, faintly—

_You are most welcome, spy of the faeries._

Brendan felt inclined to let his lips twitch in a bit of a wry smile – so _Ríth-Anstarinaor_ knew what his daytime occupation was now.  Best to let that pass, at the moment.

He slid through the gap in the defense, and suddenly found himself in a veritable forest of shadows.  It was through this that he must find this way – through thoughts, memories, dreams, desires, and other emotions and functions of the mind.  Brendan caught a glimpse of what he abruptly recognized to be a desire: a brief glittering vision of Jaedin, caressing _Elowyn_, jumped out in front of him, and then dissipated in a shower of sparkling shards.

The Dark Lord's voice echoed back to him again—

_Don't meddle with that which you have not been asked to see, Brendan of the White Realm.  I did not request for you to give me your counsel on my…love life._

Brendan almost laughed, dryly.

_Over five hundred thousand years old, and you still have such thoughts._

A snarl at him, truly ireful: _I never had such thoughts before!_

Brendan merely pressed on again, and he would have shaken his head, still smiling grimly, if he had been in reality.

Millennia passed him by, and soon he felt as if this place – the realm of the Dark Lord's mind – would go on forever.  He saw many, many things there: things that disturbed him greatly, things that were horrible and dark and bloody, and some that were utterly drenched in acid bitterness.  He began to understand – slightly, to some degree – some of his enemy's motivations, some of his reactions, to things in his life.

Then, finally, he glimpsed it: there, amidst the shadows, half hidden in what seemed to be the very boundary of this incredible, twisted labyrinth, was what he sought.  Surely, it had to be what he had come for – could it be otherwise…

He felt as if he was pulling open a door, or the lid of a treasure chest – a beam of light dazzled into the darkness, causing him to fall back—

*                       *                       *

It all happened at once.

The silence in the room was suddenly ripped into shreds, shattered like a mirror upon rock – with a shriek that contained a string of unintelligible words, Jaedin exploded back to life again, shooting to his feet and falling backwards at the same time, stumbling like a sailor upon the deck of a ship, during a storm at sea.  Sala, Elowyn, and Robbie were all snapped out of their reveries; none of them knew what to do, how to react.

_What was wrong?_

Brendan came out of his trance as well then, immediately looking to Jaedin.  The Dark Lord's memories had been uncovered, but so quickly had he broken the link between them, only he had seen what lay within those memories.  They all stared at him, as he stood unsteady and seemingly maddened before them.

Elowyn uttered his name, reaching out to him with one hand: "Jaedin…" she said.  She stepped forward, but then Jaedin made a violent gesture with both arms, erupting into movement.  Alarmed, Brendan and Sala had the presence of mind to pull her back, away from him, as Robbie put himself between the Dark Lord and the princess.

"No!" Elowyn cried, struggling against them. "Something's wrong – ask him!  You must ask him!  Something is _wrong_, blast it!"

"It – it's _impossible_!"

They all turned to look at Jaedin, who had spoken coherently for the first time in the last horrible, confused moments.  He looked absolutely crazed, rendered wild and deadly by whatever was now within his head, brought back into existence at his own request.  It was fortunate indeed, they now all saw, that Brendan had been able to come back to reality at all – if only—

"Jaedin, _please_!" came Elowyn's pleading voice, from behind her friends.

The strange light in his eyes seemed to recede for a moment, and he looked straight at her, murmuring throatily, "_Merron nenein_…" 

And he stepped towards her.  

But then Robbie and Brendan barred the way, and he – very strangely – shrank back from them, the panic returning into his face and body within an instant.

"No!  _Not her_!" snapped Robbie.

Brendan looked at the Dark Lord, silent.

Jaedin jerked his head up, his gaze momentarily meeting that of the faery nobleman's, and then – without warning – he drew back, like a cornered animal: a feral snarl twisting his lips.  And before any of them could do anything, he turned and bolted from the room.

The silence returned.

*                       *                       *

Four days passed by, and there was no trace to be found of the Dark Lord anywhere in the Pings and Hobknobs' village, or even in the forest.  Guildar sent out his best trackers, and the faeries themselves made several forays out into the tree-riddled landscape, only to return each time with nothing.  Worry set in, growing steadily worse and worse…

Without Jaedin, they could not continue their quest.

But Elowyn refused to think about this.

_He promised me.  He gave me his vow.  A vow of blood, to the one whom he desires – I am that one, the princess whom he would give his soul to have; he promised me…_

And on the morning of the fifth day, Elowyn silently and pensively pulled her long cloak of evergreen wool on over her simple, sleeveless gown of gossamer white, her fingers absentmindedly going to gently brush against the wide golden bracelets that she wore on her upper arms.  There were none of her friends about at that moment; but she knew that she had a place to be at, and _someone_ to meet there.

Unmarked by anyone, she stepped out of the bedchamber that she shared with Sala, and went down the long, slender staircases that wound round and round the gigantic trees that the Pings and Hobknobs made their homes within, until she had reached the forest floor.  She looked about herself, pausing for a moment, and then she moved on.

The forest was peaceful and quiet that day, and thoughtful as well, just as she was.  It was a perfect picture, one much like a mortal faery-tale book might include: the vision of a beautiful princess, with waves of long, flowing golden hair and piercing, vivid green eyes – now rendered dreamy and distant – draped in a flowing gown and cloak, with a chain of stars at her throat, and hung on her forehead.  The addition of a unicorn that she led by a silken halter might have been made, in a storybook, but that would have offended Orpheus in real life, had she done that.

Elowyn continued to walk, moving further and further away from the village.

And, at length, she came upon the one whom she sought.  

He was standing still, draped entirely in his cloak of ominous, foreboding black velvet: looking as if he might just be some sort of gigantic bat, lurking in the woods, unable to take flight and soar to the skies in the daylight – therefore confined to the earth.  He leaned slightly against a tree, looking out into the forest with his silvery eyes, which focused completely on her as she approached him.  She felt recognition, and interest, stirring with him – and desire.  She blushed.

Without a word to one another, they stood still for a moment: seeing and knowing all simply through each other's eyes.  

Then, she stepped forward, turned around, and sank to the pine-needle-strewn ground with the effortless grace of one faery-born.  There they remained, for long: her, sitting with her back against the tree trunk, gazing out into the sunlit branches, with him standing behind her – a dark guard keeping a jealous watch over his beloved princess, whom he was solely devoted to, as the daylight shimmered around them.

_Let the world go by now—_

_I have you at my side._

_Dark you may be,_

_And either blessed or cursed_

_With the light am I—_

_But let remain in your heart this:_

_You, my soul, you are with me._

_And I know nothing else_

_But the velvet shadow_

_Of your wings._

A promise for Eternity.

*                       *                       *

A/N: Greetings, one and all!  The Villain Forces have returned—

Shinzon: Can't you find a better name for us than that?

Jaedin: Whim of the moment, my friend, whim of the moment.  Now, as I was saying…  Notes.  What exactly did Brendan manage to uncover in my memory?  What made me react as I did – and will it cause a rift between myself and Elowyn? (Ha; I highly doubt it – as should _you_.)  These questions to be answered: some sooner, some later, as the story goes on…  R&r, please…

**Raal the Sword Master:** Me – quit acting bratty?  You know, I just don't know if that's possible…I really rather enjoy it, far too much.  And I am glad to know that a second, less-bloody version of vampyres is appreciated – I mean, the other versions are certainly '_interesting_', but the fact remains that not all vampyres must be gory, hateful creatures that are out to destroy everything.  It takes a Dark Lord to do that, not just a vampyre, in this tale…  Oh.  Crumbs.  Self-incriminating evidence.  O_o As for Elowyn and my relationship to her…well, the inclination was there all along; she just didn't know it.  Much like she doesn't know…well, I am getting ahead of myself there.  I can't reveal _everything_ yet.

**RaspberryGirl:** Questions about me and Rákkhed – ooh.  *lifts an eyebrow*  I'm not sure if I'm ready for this…but fire away, if you want.  I'll try to answer as well as I can.  Sytherria is supposed to be a lot like ancient Egypt, you are right; everywhere else…well, Middle Earth might be a good source of similarity.  Just think New Zealand in general.

**Grayfalcon:** I completely understand why you haven't reviewed…one of Kates' good friends here is getting ready to go off to college as well.  Good luck with all your endeavors there!  Glad you like the wolf metaphors as well.  Of course, the wolf isn't the only creature mentioned…there's dragon in there too…let's just say that I am your basic mix of all the dangerous but widely misunderstood creatures.  You know.  *winks*

(Shinzon steps back inside the computer room and makes a gesture for Jaedin to close the program, save changes, and get up – now.  Jaedin does so, with unnerving alacrity.)

J: Can't say when I'll be back again, ladies and gentlemen, but I do hope you enjoy the further updates… *to Shinzon* Run, run – no, not out that door!  This one over here!

S: She's coming, she's coming!  OW!  Get off of my foot – *string of phrases in Reman* Where's that Phantom when we need him?  Get the bloody door open!

J: He probably tipped her off – *trips over one of Kates' little sisters' Barbie dolls, resulting in a loud thud; gets up, little bluebirds flying around his head* Stupid…birds…

S: *grits his teeth and hauls him off* We _really_ don't have time for this!

J: *hand on forehead, trying very hard to walk straight* No, you're right – we don't.  How does sequestering ourselves in the walkthrough closet with the cable TV hookup for about the next three weeks sound to you…

S: As long as you leave it on the sci-fi channel…


	27. Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty-Four –

Promises That We Will Never Break

Elvendome was occasionally given to odd quirks in its weather, it was well known throughout the lovely sphere of Evyrworld.  What had been a perfectly sunny, warm afternoon could very quickly turn into a sudden burst of pouring rain, descending from fluffy, strangely white clouds as the sun shone brightly, the sky blue as ever.  

The day that Elowyn went forth to seek Jaedin in the forest – and found him – exactly this happened.  Out of the blue, it began to rain so hard that the fat, large droplets managed to penetrate through even the thick branches of the trees to pour down onto the forest floor, cooling the air and shrouding the woods with mist.  

Sala, Robbie, and Brendan had taken note of Elowyn's disappearance from the village's immediate vicinity shortly after she had left.  They knew her only too well, it seemed.  

A word from Guildar, however, stopped them from going out after her – he told them, sagely, that it appeared that this was the princess and the Dark Lord's affair, a matter which only they two must be left to deal with.  Elowyn's friends thought, unhappily, that it was merely Jaedin's concern, and not Elowyn's, but Guildar counseled them to remain in the village.  The two would return, he said, in time: _after_ they had sorted out whatever it was that they were most likely now discussing.  

Well, the three faeries reluctantly assented, and allowed themselves to be persuaded into joining Guildar on a tour of the village.  

There was, he had told them the night before, something rather interesting in the city's historical archives, which he had thought they might like to see…

Shortly after noon, two dripping wet but seemingly composed individuals appeared at the outskirts of the Ping and Hobknob village.  

The taller of the two, a masculine figure draped all in thick black velvet, had his arm draped carefully about the slender, delicate shoulders of his companion – a lovely, golden-haired girl with alluring eyes of spring-green – with his cloak swept about her, shielding her from the rain.  The girl's hair was utterly sodden with rain, hanging in loose, softly undulating threads about her pretty face.  But, in spite of her obviously soaked state, she seemed content: her eyes were serene and unworried, her features untainted by fear or doubt.  Her escort was less open with his emotions, but there was an air of calm about him that could have told even the most casual viewer – _a peace had been made_.

Elowyn, of course, had no idea how long this peace – this treaty, between herself and the Dark Lord – would last, but she was willing to believe in it for the moment.  

*                       *                       *

"You know your past now," she had said to him, gazing up into his eyes, with her head tilted far back so that she could see fully into his fair face. "Will you tell me about it someday?"

And he had nodded, smiling softly at her: his expression tainted only ever so slightly with a gentle sadness that he had not thought he could know. 

"Someday, yes," he had replied.

To these words, she had cocked her head to one side, eyeing him.

"When?" she had asked.

He had shaken his head, still smiling that same, strangely soft and gentle smile; then, the smile had left his face, leaving his expression wistful, and – if she had looked – tender, and he had reached out with one hand, letting it cup her face on one side.  She had leaned: willingly, unknowingly, into his touch.  

This had shocked him, although he had been careful not to show it, and he had suddenly realized, then, just what had changed between the two of them.  

He had always known, from the first moment that he had seen her, that he would have never been able to bear handing her over to the Queen – he couldn't have done it.  And, much as it seemed otherwise, even now, he would have never done anything to hurt her.

But he would have done anything to have her…_this too had changed_.  He would not admit it to anyone, but things had altered, become vastly different.  Even after he had promised to her, before, that he would do as she had asked him to, he had had his own agenda.  Dying, and at the hands of his own former sovereign, who had betrayed him, had _not_ been something that he had desired, in the remotest degree.  He had known, clearly, what he had wanted – revenge, and then to be with his princess forever, whatever he had to do to attain this.

Now, though…

Now he did not know _what_ he wanted.

And so he had simply continued to look deeply into the shimmering, sparkling depths of the eyes of the faery princess who had played his heartstrings like a lyre, and not moved.

"Someday soon," he had told her.

They left it at that.

*                       *                       *

As they walked into the village once again, side-by-side, Jaedin felt his heart – his mind – more at peace than ever before, and yet he doubted himself, still.  Not knowing what he really wanted, now, was far from comforting, and he knew full well that many things, some truly very far from pleasant, awaited him in the future.  He had not undergone a change of heart – well, not a radical one, at least.  

He had been betrayed; this was true.  He had made a promise, and he would not break it; this, also, was true.  He knew what he would have to do, in order to survive, and he knew that his aspirations remained the same.  But he would not do anything to hurt Elowyn.

_When a knight retracts his service from his Queen, he must go on to someone else – he seeks, instead, the Princess.  And this, I now do._

He glanced at Elowyn, shortly, as she walked at his side.  She wasn't looking at him at that moment, her gaze focused – instead – on the village that they were approaching, drawing ever nearer to, and he realized that she had only decided to trust him, and only slightly, at that.  

No matter what face she put on, he knew that she couldn't totally give him her faith.  He didn't deserve it – what, with everything that he had done to her.  He counted the offenses off in his mind, silently and dispassionately going over the list: abduction from her family, threats, unwanted advances that were more than mere flirtations, breaking into her mind, twisting the faint, glowing desire that she held in her heart for true, romantic love into a raging desire for him and his lips…oh, it was far more than even _those_.  

_Racking up the sins, is what they call it, I believe,_ he thought, darkly.

But – perhaps – if he 'behaved himself', as they'd come to term it, and proved himself to be a worthwhile aid in her endeavors, with her friends at her side…perhaps he would yet have a chance to win her, and also win his freedom.  To gain what he desired.

_'Ware, Dark One,_ he told himself, sternly. _Do not attach too many lines to this act that you are performing for her, for them.  It may even now recoil on you, to the utter ruin of all._

Strange – how his thoughts were now taking a plural turn, instead of the customary 'I-me-my' pattern.  Perhaps his conscience really _was_ beginning to get the better of him.

Yet, he still was a Dark Lord.

And ever would be.

He followed, wordlessly, as Elowyn led him – by the hand – up the flight of steps, around the winding stairway of ash-wood, and onto one of the platforms that composed the out-of-doors space in the village.  As they rounded the bend that the tree's enormoustrunk created on the platform, the Dark Lord and the Princess came face to face with her three friends.  The five halted, and stood still, facing one another in silence.  Sizing one another up.

Finally, someone spoke.  It was Robbie, surprisingly.

"You came back," he said, shortly.  Matter-of-fact.

Jaedin nodded, without emotion.

"I made a promise," he replied.

That was all they needed, it seemed.  Robbie nodded, acknowledging his words, and the three parted, allowing Elowyn and Jaedin to join their number as they turned to walk back towards the long, wide building that the three of them had just exited from.  Elowyn, Jaedin noted with an almost amused and certainly intrigued interest, had not yet let go of his hand; and they walked along in this way, with no comment from anyone on it.

Brendan was, meanwhile, explaining the forays of the three faeries from that afternoon, during Jaedin and Elowyn's absence, to his niece.

"You heard, before, about the Pings and Hobknobs' rather interesting history – they've always lived in this forest, Guildar told us, but he revealed something to Robbie, Sala, and I this afternoon that makes the story seem slightly incongruent," he said, pausing before he went on: "Apparently, they _haven't_ always lived here."

Elowyn raised her eyebrows, in a light air of questioning.

"And am I permitted to know the story behind this?" she asked.

Brendan merely waved her and Jaedin towards the domed-roof building, dismissing any ability – on his part – to answer that particular question.

"Guildar is inside," he said, in way of a reply. "He'll be wanting to see you – ask him then.  I think that you'll find what he has to tell you downright mystifying."

Then Brendan gestured to Robbie and Sala, and they went off with him, leaving Jaedin and Elowyn alone together on the platform.  Sala – however – before the three disappeared out of sight around the corner of the tree, glanced over her shoulder and mouthed to Elowyn four words when Jaedin wasn't looking.  Elowyn couldn't exactly tell what she was saying, but she could easily guess – _We need to talk._

She smiled, wryly, and nodded.  Then, she turned to the vampyre and lifted an eyebrow.  

"Shall we?" she inquired.

Jaedin seemed slightly bemused at the moment, but he did reply.

"_Indeed_; we shall…" he murmured, and wound her arm through his, taking them off towards the building where the Ping governor awaited them, with his story.

*                       *                       *

Upon entering the room together, Jaedin and Elowyn abruptly halted: staring about themselves in shock – shock and recognition, on his part, and shock and memory on hers.  Before them, they now saw what appeared to be an enormous, long gallery of artfully crafted and unfamiliar armor and weaponry.  

Curving, double-edged swords, star-shaped switchblades, crossbows, spears, maces, and many, many more lined from the walls: intricately detailed with jade-green, gold, silver, and ash-wood, while straight rows of flawlessly assembled armor stood in front.  Above their heads, from the ceiling, hung many pennants and standards, all in the same colours as the armor and weapons.  So engrossed were the two in their staring at the room, they did not notice Guildar until he spoke.

"Intriguing, aren't they?"

Elowyn wrested herself from her mind-numbing amazement and responded to him, still unable to take her eyes from the walls, however.

"Guildar," she breathed, "It's _amazing_."

Jaedin nodded to her words.  He did not look as impressed as she – rather, he appeared more investigative and circumspect, although he hid the darkness of those emotions in his eyes very well.  Then again, he had trained himself to do so, over many hundreds of thousands of years.

"We were informed that you would tell us a story about this place – about your people, as a whole," he said, slowly. "May I dare to presume that we shall now hear of it?"

Guildar nodded.  He gestured towards the chamber: a movement that indicated that they might make themselves free to walk about, and examine things as they wished.  Elowyn and Jaedin – without even realizing it – let their hands slip apart, and went in opposite directions further into the room.  Elowyn stared up at a suit of armor, her mermaid's eyes scanning deeply and penetratingly over its sleek, long curvatures and joints.  Guildar began to tell his story, and they listened as they continued to look around.  __

  "Once – long ago – the world was very different," he said, slowly. "_We_ were very different.  For as long as I, or any of those like me can recall, we have been here: in this place – but we were not originally of it."

Jaedin felt an eerie, stomach-twisting feeling go through himself when the Ping had said those words; his gray eyes intensified in their scanning of a sword that hung on the wall, until it almost seemed that he wished to burn through it with the mere power of his gaze.  Elowyn and Guildar, however, did not notice.

_I have heard of such a thing before…_

Meanwhile, Elowyn was speaking to Guildar. 

"Go on," she said, in a soft voice.

Guildar shrugged, brushing off the seriousness of the moment, and smiled at her.  

"There is not much more to say, Princess," he told her. "From what we know, this forest has not always been our home, and we have not always been as we are now.  This room," he gestured widely at the space, "Is all that is left of that distant past, which none now remain that remember.  This room, and the promise that was made to us by an oracle."

Elowyn felt her throat tighten, and her heart began to pound.  

They were in familiar territory now.

_Oracles,_ she thought, feeling as if the ground underneath her feet had suddenly become very unsteady, untrustworthy – _Ever oracles.  When will the prophecies fulfill themselves, and end?_

"What promise were you given, Guildar?"

Little, almond-shaped eyes looked up at her: seeming to read her.

"That we would be called upon, ere the world ended, and that our help would be sought," was the reply: a laugh accompanied it. "Though what can a race so small do to help anything – or _anyone_?  Our place in this world, Princess," he continued, as she looked about to protest, "Seems to be one of cheering people, when we _do_ see them, and creating mirth.  It is not a bitter thing to know, you see, but there will always be questions."

"Guildar," Elowyn said, with heartfelt emotion in her tone. "Everyone here has been an incredible help to us, already; you should know that.  Long after we have left this place, we shall be far into your debt.  We can never repay you for your kindness, believe me."

There was a silence in the sunlit room after that, as all three of its inhabitants – the faery princess, the diminutive Ping governor, and the dark, imposing figure of the vampyre who stood nearby them – let the words of the conversation sink into them.  Elowyn bit her bottom lip, gently, and stared at the intricate swirling patterns on the silvery blade of a long, almost sword-like knife.  

The whole scene before her in the room, her very detachment from reality itself as she withdrew into her own thoughts, seemed like a dream.  And yet, when she stretched out a hand, to run her fingertip along the blade of the knife, she could feel the thin, razor-sharp edge.  If she had pressed harder, she knew that she would have instantly been awarded with pain, and a thin slash in her skin.  But, as it was, she was treading a very thin line…

Thought was all that remained to hang onto.  

For all of her life, she had been haunted by the knowledge that one day – somehow, somewhere – she would be the one to spell the Dark Realm's doom.  Of course, it still remained esoteric and quite baffling to her how she would do this: she, a single, young princess who had only her friends and her wits to rely on, sometimes.  How could it have been decreed by the Fates that she would end the reign of evil in the world…?

And then there was Jaedin.  

If she had been asked exactly what her…_relationship_…to him was, she could not have easily found an answer within herself.  She would have writhed uneasily against such a question, and would have been – and would have been frightened: yes, _frightened_, by not only the gravity of that so seemingly simple inquiry, but the things that remained in her own heart.  What could she tell someone – someone like Sala, for example – about how she felt?  The Dark Lord was disarmingly attractive: yes, to say the very least.  He was also very dangerous, and very capable of ending her world as it was at any given moment.  

Yet he had told her, again and again, of the bond that he felt between himself and her, and she knew that never, in all of the countless years of his existence, had he ever given voice to such feelings before.  He was the epitome of evil, and yet he had not directly hurt her, in all of the time that she had known him.  He desired her, she knew, but – in spite of this – he simply refused to do anything that would serve to endanger or wound her, in a literal or figurative sense.  Questions, questions.  His presence in her life made it all the more complicated.

Unless…

_Unless that which makes your life more complicated can also make it crystal clear,_ her mind told her.  _Sometimes the one thing that you fear the very most can also be the one thing that can save you, from everything.  From anything._

Was it madness, this thought?

She glanced at Jaedin.

Madness?  Perhaps.  Sanity?  Perhaps that, as well.  Madness and sanity had not been unknown to combine, under certain circumstances.

Then the room drew her attention again, and she turned her gaze upon Guildar.  

Whatever the questions were that she had now, she couldn't go out searching for them.  Some things could never be found, when one searched for them.  One had only to wait, and trust that all would be revealed, sometime.  Guildar and his race – the Pings and the Hobknobs – knew nothing of their true origins.  All that they had was a string of words from an ancient prophecy made by an oracle, and a room full of strange weapons and armor, and yet they did not writhe in anxiety over it.  They merely trusted, and lived their little lives.

She had considerably more than that – she had a family, she had friends who loved her, and at least some idea of what her future course would turn towards…or so everything seemed to tell her.  In the end, it appeared that what it all would come down to was trust.

_Trust, and faith._

And the quest awaited them.

She took a deep, silent breath: feeling the worry and doubt being cleansed from her very being, cleared away like cobwebs and dust from a belfry, flying like bats at the approach of light, and turned back towards her companions.

"Thank you – for everything that you have done for us, Guildar," she said, with solemn sincerity. "We shall always remember you for it…but we have a quest to complete now, and we must turn our course towards our intended path, once again."

"You have a quest, and the fate of the world hangs in the balance," Guildar said, with a little fox-like smile. "I know.  Before you leave, however…" 

He clapped his little paws together, and instantly – again – several Pings and Hobknobs entered the room through the wide doorway, to stand at attention: waiting for him to give them some order, apparently.  Guildar, meanwhile, went over to the wall and, with some effort, lifted the long knife that she had been eyeing from its hangings, presenting it to her with an attempted flourish that nearly sent him toppling over. 

"Perhaps we can send along some things that will afford you some aid on your journey," he told her; then he added, almost jestingly, "Or at least that will give you more help than they will anyone here, draped on the walls collecting dust.  I think you'll find several of the items within this place rather useful…"

Elowyn nodded, abstractedly, as she took the knife from him: holding it up in one hand before her: gazing fixatedly at the gleaming blade, upon which was etched scrolling comets and bursting stars.  It was one of a pair, she now noticed: a pair composed of two long, slender knives that slipped smoothly into a fine leather pack that was accented with colours of pale sage green, deep, vibrant sapphire blue, and gold, in a pattern of peacock feathers, layer upon layer.  

Such a gift, it was obvious, would be the envy of hundreds of mortal collectors.  She let the corner of her mouth etch into itself, sending Guildar a bit of an almost wry little smile.

"I must say you've matched me perfectly with what weaponry I tend to choose, Master Guildar," she said, in light mock-seriousness. "Now, tell me: is there anything that we can ever do for _you_, in return?"

Guildar motioned to the Pings and Hobknobs who stood behind him before replying, and Elowyn watched as they began to move about the room, selecting pieces from here and there: preparing them for travel with the faeries and their guide.  Then he turned to her.

"Well, there is _one_ thing that you might do…" he said.

Elowyn nodded. "Name it," she told him, "And I will do all that I can to comply."

"In that long ago time," Guildar then told her, all in a rush, as if he was somehow concerned of either putting her askance towards him or for some other, less discernable reason, "When we were not what we are now, and were not where we are now…we served the Lady.  The Lady of the Fates, the Star-Maiden.  But then, she was taken from us, and the vast darkness came over the world, and we were told that, on the day that she was reunited with her lover, and the forces of light and dark collided, we would once again be rendered her servants."

He paused.

"If you ever hear of anything like this coming to be…would you mind returning here to tell us?  Not many other people frequent our forests to tell us the news of the world outside this place."

And Elowyn smiled, nodding.  _Such trust…_

"Yes: I will return, Guildar – we will return."

Then, she re-positioned the blade between her hands again, flattening the palm of the free one against the smooth, gleaming metal surface, and stood absolutely still for a moment.  

Suddenly, without warning, she whirled around and brought the blade down through the air: there was a great ringing noise then, and a flash of sparks, as it came to meet another blade – of a sword.  Elowyn gazed into the eyes of the sword-bearer: jade depths shooting across time and space to meet those of silver.  Then she spoke, without looking away.

"And we will _never_ break a promise."

*                       *                       *

A/N:  I dedicate this chapter to those of you who have been delicately hinting – and sometimes not so delicately hinting *winks* that I should include some romance between our Dark Lord and his Princess.  Just charming, isn't it?  Well, I hope you think so.  Anyways.  Oh, and this is Kates herself updating this time, and not the tyrannical and very evil duo of Shinzon and Jaedin, who are in BIG TROUBLE right now for the little trick they pulled last time around.

*glares at boys*

Kates: You should be locked in my little sisters' room with only the Barbie dolls and multiple-loop recordings of as many boy bands as possible right now, you know that don't you?

Getting on though…

Thank you all for your many kind and helpful reviews; I appreciate them all to the greatest extent!

**DarkSlytherinAngel:**  Hello, dahling!  I hope you're going to update your story soon…anywho.  *laughs* Yes, the Pings and Hobknobs are a bit like the Ewoks/Rivendell elves, although I think I'd consider them more like Lothlorien elves, perhaps…but yes…

**Riene:**  You always leave such marvelous reviews; I can't thank you enough.  ^_^  I too enjoy adding in little scenes with past characters, beloved as they are to me…I think you can tell exactly how I feel there.  As for our Lord Valdeth of several chapters ago…well, yes, he was meant to be quite the image.  Jaedin would not have it any other way.  Infuriatingly lovable boy…he _does_ enjoy a good show of the dramatic side.

**GryffindorGal3:**  Hehe, you'd better watch out, my dear, or Jaedin will leap off of your computer and come to life, if you say such things!  He hasn't been known to do such…drastic…things before.  I try very hard to make my characters real, and when I hear such feedback as yours, it tells me that I am doing an accurate job.  Thank you.  ^_^

**Rosethorn:**  Jaedin wants to know exactly what "snog" means – I wouldn't tell him though, just for my own sake.  *eyes Jaedin uneasily*  Or Shinzon for that matter.  Hmm.  As for the sparkle paint…erm, well, you're going to have to ask Erik about that.  Or check out one of my Phantom phiclets…I believe I discussed it in my Valentine's Day writing.  He rather resents my bringing it up though.  And DON'T YOU DARE, under any circumstances whatsoever, period, let Gavin out.  I have enough to deal with between Shinzon and Jaedin's shenanigans; don't even _start_ with me…

**Grayfalcon:**  No matter when or how you review, I will always enjoy hearing anything you have to say.  Well, almost anything.  Granted, I'd be inclined to feel just a tad bit hurt if you told me, "OH MY GOSH, I HATE THIS!"  But so far, you haven't yet, so everything's just lovely.  As usual.  Now, to be serious, I've much enjoyed writing about Jaedin's nasty side – as most of my male characters before are more or less nice guys, although they have their share of angst from time to time – but getting into his more or less good qualities has been interesting as well.  The thing about truly intriguing villains all comes down to this – they're not out and out bad people.  They are complex, and this is what I hope Jaedin has been to my readers.  And believe me, I am bringing on the romance…be sure to stick around for upcoming chapters, because you all will be getting a liberal dose of it quite soon now.

**Pabo:**  Yes!  I feel the exact same way – a bad guy as the hero is a nice break from the norm.  All the way.  But I also have nothing against the addictive guilty pleasure through-and-through sweet stuff either…

Now, on to the next chapter!  


	28. Chapter Twenty Five

Twenty-Five –

The Quest of Legends:

Misadventure –

To Descend into the Depths of Torment,

To be Saved by the Power of Love

_How did it come to this?_

Elowyn sat on the ground, her head in her hands, staring hopelessly – blankly – out in front of her, as a cold, clinging fall of rain poured down around her: turning her gown and cloak into a mess of sodden fabrics, and her hair into a mess of pale golden tangles.  She raised her head a bit, and gazed briefly at the trio of friends who stood around her in the rain.  

They all looked so hopeless…but now, they were.

She felt a great, hard pressure on her chest then, threatening to overwhelm her with its intensity, and her throat became tight, painfully tight; her eyes burned with scalding tears, which caused her vision to swim, and the scenery around her to become even more blurry and gray.

_Gray as storm clouds…_

"We must do something," she finally choked out.

Her friends were silent, until Robbie took the initiative to speak; in a hollow, almost bitter and defeated tone, he said, "I don't think the question is what we must do, Elowyn…it's what can we do?  Is there anything we _can_ do?"

And Elowyn looked at him, into the familiar faces of the friends she had known and loved, with all her heart and soul, since her birth, and saw what lay within their features.

Then she laid her head back down on her folded arms, and cried.

_How did it come to this?_

*                       *                       *

In order for the reason for their current despair to be understood, a minor flashback must be included within the intrepid adventurers' tale.  Or perhaps a not-so-minor flashback.

They had left the Pings and Hobknobs' village without delay, and had made a speedy journey into the wilderness once again.  Slowly, the forest began to thin before their eyes, and Jaedin told them all that they would now be turning their course towards the border between Elvendome and the dread desert realm of Sytherria.

Elowyn, trusting in his judgment and knowledge of the lands through which they must travel – in order to reach the portal to the Dark Realm: ostensibly, a _Dark Gate_ – followed his every direction, as did her friends.  Jaedin had proved himself at least somewhat trustworthy by returning to them not once, but twice, when he might have been able to do otherwise, and although they still remained uneasy about turning their backs completely on him, they managed to journey along without further…arguments…between various members of the group.

Then, the day came when they found themselves riding out from underneath the last fringes of the trees.  Before them, they saw a wide, long stretch of grassy fields, which came up in rolling hills to a pointed, craggy cliff, which plunged down to a deep, treacherous-looking ravine far below its edge.  On top of this cliff, there was an enormous, walled structure that appeared to be some sort of city.  Jaedin reigned in his mount and gestured to it, his eyes never leaving its solid, seemingly impenetrable façade.  

"Isiravadad," he told them: rolling the syllables gracefully off of his vampyric tongue, with effortless elegance and fluid precision, beauty.  

Elowyn shortly marveled at how fluent he appeared to be, in not only his own language – that of his people – but of many others as well, which he had displayed in their travels thus far.  She then marked that he was turning in his saddle – to look at her.  

His silvery eyes penetrated deeply into her own.  

"Otherwise known as the Silver City."

Elowyn instantly knew that there was something off about the whole situation then; why would Jaedin be taking them directly towards a city that had such a name…if vampyres normally avoided silver, wasn't this place's name a sort of portent for them…

Before she could consider this any further, he spoke in reply to her unspoken thoughts.  Impassive and coolly appraising, he looked at the distant city: the expression on his proud, high features unreadable, as always.

"Some several hundred thousand years ago, I was sent here – to this place, but before it had ever attained its current name," he said, without emotion. "I was sent here under the auspices of the Ebony Queen, who sought to make an attachment – an allegiance, between its residents and the Dark Realm; as, at the time, it was well known that the people who make their dwelling here are a clannish and fierce sort, fully capable of providing superior effort in battle.  She wanted them to join in the war against the faeries – and the elves, and whoever else chose to fight against them."

He paused, and Elowyn took note of the thunderclouds that gathered in his eyes.

"I _did_ come here, and I laid my proposition before them; the elders of the city came out to meet me in the place I designated for our negotiations, should these come to pass, and for long we went back and forth in argument.  At length, they gave me their answer.  No: they would not join with the Ebony Queen in her war, nor would they subject themselves to any overlord or monarch.  They would embattle themselves against any and all whom they pleased, but they would not join with the Queen.  I told them that their reply satisfied me, and to return to their city."

And now his eyes narrowed.

" _'How many men does it take to carry and then spread a message to an entire city?'_ I asked my captain of the guard…" 

He seemed, almost, as if he was speaking to himself, living again a memory of long ago.  He certainly wasn't looking at any of them; his gaze had, instead, fixed itself on the great walled city before them, looming up against the cloud-enshrouded midmorning sky.  

" _'My lord himself knows, and none other.'_ Captain Dahk-Marr replied to me…"

Then—

" _'Only one.'_ I told him."

Jaedin sat up straight in the saddle again, coming out of what had almost looked to be a trance of some sort: a distant memory-induced state; and he looked at them all, full lips curving upwards in the faint semblance of a flickering, fully bitter and utterly world-weary smile.

"They were killed, within moments of their departure from my headquarters: all but one of the delegates fell, with arrows in their backs," he said, his voice toneless and cynical, dry. "Then, the very next morning, I gave the order to have every man in that city – every male between the ages of fifteen and sixty – brought out, to the very field that we now stand upon the fringes of." 

His attention withdrawing from them again, he removed one hand from its grasp on the reins of his mount, and held it up, his eyes roving intensely over the black-leather palm, fingers, and wrist – almost as if he were wondering at their capacity to inflict suffering and death.

"I wiped them out – every last one of them."

He was silent.

"And now their bones alone remain to testify to that day.  One of the mistakes I made then: one among the many, was to allow them to know what I was." 

Then he looked at them, squarely. 

"Since that time," he said, in an uninflected, calm, and matter-of-fact tone, "Every vampyre that has had the misfortune to stumble upon the Silver City has been routinely slaughtered – tormented until they reached their deaths.  That was my fault; I let them know what I was, and I gave them a reason for everlasting resentment, and a need for vengeance.  Hence, the name Silver City – Isiravadad – the bane of vampyres.  And we must go into it."

This shook them all out of their depths of spellbound, near disbelief; abruptly, Elowyn's eyes flared, dark and wide, and she became a few shades paler, and Sala's mouth dropped open, while Brendan looked intensely and narrowly at the Dark Lord; Robbie, however, was the first to speak from among them.

"_What_?  Why in the nine rings of the underworld is that necessary?  Is there no other way for us to travel around it?"

Jaedin's merely smirked – telling them instantly that, as usual, he knew something that they didn't.  In reply to Robbie's words, he said, "Oh, there is a _very_ easy way to travel around this city; it's not as if it takes up that great of a girth here in the nether grasslands of Elvendome.  I could guide us around it blindfolded, if I really wanted to…no, Prince Robeneron, it is actually quite imperative that we enter Isiravadad.  Dark Gates are rather peculiar things, you see – they tend to shift position every so often, so that only the most knowledgeable and dare-I-say powerful members of the Dark Realm can locate them, and even then, one must have a _key_ to enter in."

Now his smirk became slightly grim.

"Many years ago I had dealings with a certain odds and ends dealer, whom I have since learned has taken up a residency in the Silver City.  I've no doubt that he is trying to hide from me." 

Jaedin then shot a look full of meaning at Elowyn, lips pursing a bit. 

"His name is Xinth, and he happens to possess one of the last remaining keys to the Dark Gates – I've no idea where the bizarre creature got it, but such history is immaterial.  If we wish to enter the Dark Realm, we must first retrieve the key, before we move any further on our quest."

And so it was decided that – in order not to draw attention to themselves with their obvious faery-appearances and travelers' garb – Elowyn and Jaedin alone would enter the city, and go in search of the pawn-shop owner, Xinth.  Her friends were reluctant to let this come to pass, but the fact remained that, of all of them, Elowyn was the one that Jaedin would cooperate for, the only one of them whom he would willingly consort with.

_Most_ of the time, that was.

She was safe with him, it was remembered, because of her necklace, and Jaedin could not very well risk treachery – as they were slowly beginning to doubt he would, in the face of his promise and recent acts – in a place where some of his very worst enemies resided.  If anyone, anyone at all, had even the slightest suspicion that there was a vampyre in the midst of the Silver City…Elowyn tried not to think of the consequences of this, as she mounted up behind Jaedin on the saddle of his coal-black stallion.

Before they rode off, towards the city, she looked back one last time at her friends, who stood in a half-circle with each other at the edge of the woods.  They all wore tight, strained looks on their pale faces, and she could tell that the strain of their journey was slowly beginning to wear on each of them.  _This will all end soon,_ she told them, desperately, within her mind.  _Soon, it will all be over.  Soon.  I promise you._              

 In front of her, Jaedin turned his head slightly: angling his shaven skull so that he could look back at her, out of the very corner of his eye.  The light from the gray sky above them caused his silvery eyes to glitter a bit, and she restrained her urge to shrink back from him.  

"Are you prepared to leave, Princess?" he inquired, his voice soft, gentle, and velvety – purposefully so, she decided: like a cat that purred quite loudly one moment, and then struck out, with fangs and claws, the next.  

Oh yes, the Dark Lord frightened her.  

He intimidated her, with his age, with his desires, and with his vast experience, and he attracted her.  She felt drawn to him, in a way that no man had ever drawn her before.  He had not hurt her, yet, and he had proved himself at least somewhat trustworthy – she was teetering on the edge of finally thinking that, perhaps, it was finally time to stop wondering whether she could give him her faith, and simply doing so.  One inch further, and she would plunge off of the edge—

And into his arms.

She nodded, and felt those very arms tighten underneath their black velvet sleeves, as he moved to shift the reins' position in his capable, deft hands.  With no other way to seat herself, she clasped her hands in front of his waist, holding on around him as he prodded his mount in the sides to a rolling gallop; she, after a moment, leaned forward and let her cheek rest against the broad, curving plane of his back, her skin rubbing against the smooth velvet.  

Slowly, the city of Isiravadad drew near to them, growing larger and larger, until they had ridden into the shadow of its walls.

*                       *                       *

Oh, that they had never entered that thrice-accursed city!  

Elowyn, upon remembering what had occurred there, felt tears spring to her eyes again – tears of rage, of futile effort, and utter helplessness.  Oh, yes, they had found the key that he had spoken of: she and Jaedin, and oh, yes, Jaedin had been his proper terrifying, arrogant, and all-around menacing self as he threatened the bug-eyed little creature known as Xinth with a thousand different ways to die, should he have disposed of the key before that time.

Still, the rain continued to pour down around her, and she felt its coldness seep into her soul, filling her until she felt nothing but a queer, numb sensation, all over her.

What had they done to him…she could never forget that sight…

The memory of his capture – Jaedin's capture – was nothing but a blur to her.  One moment, they had been walking down the cobblestone street: together, towards the Dark Lord's waiting steed.  The next moment, there was a horde of angry, writhing human beings pressed around them, on every side, and they were reaching out: reaching out with hard, rough hands to grab her, her hair, her arm, her clothing, ripping and snatching at her, their voices a horrid cacophony in her sensitive faery ears.  Then they were drawing her back, pulling her away, and she saw that it was not _her_ whom they were after: of course not – it was_ Jaedin_.

Her vampyre guide; the Dark Lord.  

She heard the name 'Xinth' mentioned over and over, along with 'pawn-shop merchant', and 'bloody vampyre', and a hundred thousand much worse things.  They had been tipped off of a vampyre's presence in the city, by someone, and Jaedin had failed the mirror test.  When he walked by a mirror, Elowyn now learned, Jaedin would cast no reflection, as no vampyre would; only in special mirrors could his reflection be shown.  And in the depths of the mirror that she _did_ recall walking by, with him at her side, there had been only the image of the slender young girl with long waves of pale golden hair, and sharp green eyes.  Nothing of her escort.

Elowyn closed her eyes.

Her soul felt as if it had been torn out of her, wrested from within her chest, and ravaged: pummeled about, dragged over razor-sharp glass, and punctured until it was nothing but a broken, bruised, and bleeding pulp of what had once dwelt within her.  And she felt this for the one who should have been, she knew, her worst enemy – she felt this for the being who would have done everything he could to destroy the world she knew and loved, her very family and friends.  How could this be so?  How could she feel so deeply for him?  _It wasn't anything that she could explain!_  She despaired, because of this, and because she knew that, without Jaedin, they would never reach the Dark Gate in time.  They would be lost.

She could do nothing.

Night drew on, with a cold, dank chill to replace the gray, rain-ridden air of the daytime, and the sky above them was soon stained with a sickly orange hue at its very horizon.  Elowyn wrapped her sodden cloak more closely about her, in an attempt to warm herself – to banish the coldness that simply refused to go away – and tried to think.  

Always, _always_, had she been told that nothing was impossible, in her world.  Even death could, at times, be thwarted; it was under the sovereign power of the Fates, and the Three Themselves that this was so.  

How many times, however, had she been tempted to cry out to Them that she no longer wanted this life – why did they torment her?  Already in her short seventeen years of life, she had been cursed with a prophecy of doom that hung over her head, inescapable, and then with the presence of a Dark Lord, whose desires for her both unnerved and exhilarated her.  So, even if she _did_ seek an answer of Them now – The Ones who held sway over her life, and everything in it – would They deign to answer her, to give her the answers she needed?

The answer, as always, was _Yes_.

It would take a miracle, she reflected – a somewhat acerbic smile playing about her rosebud lips – to save someone like Jaedin…but it was something that she had to do.  After all, what could a mere city of mortals: mortals who were corrupt, depraved, and cruel-hearted, from what she had seen in their visit to Isiravadad, do to stand against the powers of the Light?  If worked against in just the right way, could they not also fall, eventually…?

_Sometimes, you just have to stop wondering what you can do, and simply do it._

Elowyn knew now, in her heart, that this was true.  She had to stop considering whether she could trust Jaedin, and simply do it – trust him.  She must force herself to surmount her own doubts, and enter the Silver City, in search of him.  No matter what happened outside of all that, she had to at least make an attempt at saving him!  She couldn't just let him…

_Oh Fates,_ she suddenly thought, as a wave of horror assailed her.  _I don't want to think it – can he die?  He cannot!_

Or, at least, she didn't want him to.

She stood up, abruptly, and was about to turn to her friends, to speak to them, when – suddenly – a volley of fireworks erupted in the sky.  They all cowered, momentarily: recoiling at the unexpected noise and explosive light before realizing what was happening.  Elowyn glanced sharply at Brendan. 

"What was that for?" she asked him.

Brendan shook his head, his eyes dark and slightly narrowed.

"I do not know…" he replied, and then he closed his eyes and was still, and Elowyn knew that he was searching into the midst of the city, to find the cause for the commotion.  She did the same, and the answer came to them at the exact same time.  Her eyes shot open, as she gasped.

"It's the Carnival of Foolery," Brendan rasped, unsteadily, and got to his feet. "Tonight, they celebrate the anniversary of the founding of the Silver City, its name-giving day; they will execute all their prisoners at the event, and revel over the deaths."

Robbie and Sala were already mounting up; Brendan and Elowyn hastily took to their own mounts as well, Elowyn snatching up the reigns of Jaedin's mount – which she had been left alone with, after the Dark Lord's mortal assailants had dragged him off, totally forgetting her in the wake of his capture – as they moved.  Brendan snapped out orders.

"We'll have no trouble getting into the city; the gates are unguarded, but once we are there, our trouble lies in finding our vampyric friend.  They'll most likely have him – wherever he is – under a heavy watch: five or six guards, at least, and everyone else will be on a careful alert for anyone who might make an attempt at rescuing him.  We'll need a diversion."

At Elowyn's side, Robbie made a curt gesture of his head, nodding to Brendan's words.

"Think no more of it," he said. "Most likely, he'll only cooperate for Elowyn, if we do find him, so you two ought to go in search for him; Sala and I will take care of your diversion."

"Robbie," Elowyn said, grabbing his hand.  Her nephew looked into her eyes, his face dark and unreadable in the shadows; his ice-blue eyes glimmered in the low light, the only things that she could truly see of his face. "Be careful," she told him.

He nodded.

"Find him, Elowyn.  We've come too far now to lose everything."

_I promise._  She could only find the strength within herself to mouth those words to him, but their silence did not make them any less potent, nor true.  Robbie held her gaze for a moment longer, and then brought his mount around, and rode off – a silent, gliding shadow that sped across the wide plain with its twin: Sala, on her horse, following behind.

Then Elowyn and Brendan likewise left the fringes of the forest, and rode towards the castle.  As its gates loomed up ahead of her, she thought again of her first sight of them – close at hand; only this time, she had a new thought to occupy her mind.

_I don't know how they've kept you, Jaedin, or what they have done to you; and I don't know what we were before, or what will happen afterwards, or how I will like it, but I swear to you one thing—_

_Regardless of anything else, I am with you._

*                       *                       *

The streets of Isiravadad were bereft of their normal hustle and bustle, deserted by their inhabitants, who had gone to the enormous, multi-coloured, tent-like dome that had been set up for the revelries in the center of the city.  Everywhere about, there could be seen garish streamers and decorations, draped on posts, buildings, fountains, and scattered lifelessly on the ground.  

A pair of darkly garbed, slender young figures walked silently down the silent, still avenues, casting about themselves for any sign of life – looking at everything.  The taller of the two, a startlingly handsome youth with hair of ebony and eyes of sapphire, and the pale complexion of one who is faery-born, shook his head: looking troubled. 

"I really don't like this," Robbie said to his companion, who nodded wordlessly in agreement to his words. "These people seem to me like the kind who don't just have a grudge against an ancient Dark Lord – it appears as if they dislike _everybody_."

Sala scanned her surroundings with piercing, darkened hazel eyes.  She far from liked the Dark Lord, but she knew that his guidance was a necessary evil – as it were – to their quest.  Without him, the world would be plunged into darkness, including the world of the very people in whose city they now walked.  Finally, she replied to Robbie.

"Quite," she said.  Suddenly, she stopped – sensing movement, sound, life, from up ahead – and flung a hand back, placing it hard on the boy's chest, and shoved them both into the shadows of an alleyway.  At length, a large detachment of carousing men, apparently guards of the city's militia, came smashing along the street, some of their number passing very close by the faeries' place of concealment.  Robbie glanced at her, question and wariness in his eyes.  Sala watched as the men went on their way, and only after she was certain that the danger was gone did she let them come out of the shadows.

A thoughtful look crossed her face.

"Now, was it just me, or did they mention the specific directions to the place where their so-called 'convicts' were being kept?" she asked her comrade.

Robbie wore the same look, tainted with slyness.

"You know," he said, slowly, "I believe they did.  How very odd…Sala, my dear friend, what would you say a…oh, perhaps call it a _jailbreak_, might do, in this city?  It has the potential to cause quite a bit of chaos, you know."

Sala's expression turned positively devilish.

"Robbie, my dear boy," she replied, "I was thinking the exact same thing."

And they ran off, into the night.

*                       *                       *

Jaedin awoke, and darkness surrounded him.  For a few precious, almost delicious seconds – in the time between true awakening and unconsciousness – he very nearly imagined that he was back in his chambers in _Dranthiris-Ankhar_, and soon he would be going to the Tower of Adamant to once again attempt to woo his princess.

Then, the great, thudding pain hit him.

He gasped and opened his eyes – still darkness – his eyes weren't even _open_!  Something had been tied over them, something that was rough and chafing, and simply denied him any eyesight whatsoever.  Disorientated and confused, he tried to move – and couldn't.  On every side of him, he felt a coarse, hard surface: stone.  The blackness that was around him was so thick, and the pain that was now beginning to wrack through his body was excruciating.  

A dagger of agony ripped through his stomach, and he lurched forward, curling into himself, and grit his teeth against the sensation.  Vaguely, he felt a sense of past anger, a need to escape, and then fear – fear that he had not known since—

They had captured him, the blasted vampyre-hating mortals!  They had captured him, and then they had tormented him, using his every weakness as a weapon against him.  He would have instantly escaped, and destroyed them all, had it not been for the silver shackles that they'd clapped down over his wrists, even as he struggled against their hands, trying to get to his princess.  Elowyn – they'd have let her go, presumably.  If they'd done anything else…

As his anger filled him, he found that his sense of reality was returning; his memories came along with it as well.  How many hours – or was it an eternity? – had they spent torturing him, finding every last pressure point, every last weak spot, that he had in his body?  He remembered the torture implements – a cat-'o-nine-tails, its ends tipped with shards of glass, shards of silver, molten silver drizzled over his bare skin, pliers…

His cell – when they threw him into it, shaking so violently that he was nearly in a seizure – hung with the garlic that his already empty stomach twisted and turned at the smell of, causing him to retch, his throat to burn: ragged at the abuse of vomit, bile, and the cries that his captors would not heed…

The four windows, in every wall, barred but allowing the sunlight to come into the room at every hour of the day, affording him no respite, no rest, no release from the pain: from the dizzy, thoughtless buzzing that now occupied his mind, instead of thought…

Oh, there had been more – much more.

And now…now they had entombed him.

It was almost funny – or perhaps he was simply going mad, as he sat there in the stone sarcophagus, wrapped in the linens of the undead, with his air supply in short demand.  He was almost tempted to laugh, in spite of the pain in his body.  It wouldn't be long before he ran out of air to breath entirely, which was how – he supposed – most life-burial victims eventually expired.  An unexpectedly merciful twist to a tortured death, and one that he was almost certain his captors hadn't intended.  Knowing _them_.

They'd poured far too much of the poison of silver into his blood for him to so much as faintly consider using his powers to get himself out of his stone prison.  The mere touch of that particular metal was, and he knew this far too well, enough to severely sap a vampyre's powers, and telling from the state of agony that both his mind and body were now in…

He would die.

Oddly enough, this thought seemed distant and almost calm.  Jaedin the Dark Lord, in real and uninhibited life, would have railed against the thought of becoming one with true lifelessness; living the life of a wraith for over five hundred thousand years was cause for shuddering enough.  But the Jaedin who was now imprisoned at the hands of mortals, who had tortured him until he had reached his breaking point, and then had placed him in what they had surely meant to be his final resting place, before the life had really left him…

He leaned his head back against the cold coarse stone, and was very, very still.  He could get no sense of Elowyn anywhere; and usually, this was what happened to calm him the most.  The sensation of her presence, in his world, acted as an unusually sweet respite from the world of howling darkness that he existed in.  He welcomed the sight of her beautiful young faery face, and he knew that he would welcome the feel of her against him, with open arms.

_Elowyn…_

Speaking even her _name_ was a great effort.  His lips, he felt, were cracked and bleeding, bruised and swollen to a gross extent, and his face felt as if it were one massive, open wound.  He'd had bones broken before, many a time, now that he recalled it; he knew well how they felt.  And right at the moment, several of his ribs felt as if they were scraping close to his lungs and inner organs in a way that even he found slightly disconcerting.  He flexed his fingers, carefully, and was surprised to find that they would still move – they'd left him his hands intact.

_And you want her to see you now?_ he asked himself, mockingly, as he lay there in the darkness, unmoving.  _You'd look just as you did the first time you met – a living, breathing nightmare.  She would run from you so quickly that you would have to chase after her in order to even make her hear you.  But…then…all you've really ever done in regard to her is chase after her…it wouldn't be that much different, now would it?_

But death – death would be different.

Then, for the first time in his life, the Dark Lord of Sytherria felt an emotion well known to many members of that world, and the others beyond it…

Despair.

*                       *                       *

Robbie and Sala's diversion had worked like a charm.  

Most of the 'convicts' that had been kept in the Silver City were the labeled freaks and outcasts – namely a number of vampyres, and any mortals who had somehow displeased the city's regular inhabitants.  None of them had truly done anything worth the punishment of torment and death in the Carnival of Foolery.  The prince and his companion had sneaked into the prisoners' holding area, and artfully released the people held within the cages.  When the prisoners broke out, pandemonium ensued, and within moments, the entire city was in an uproar.

Meanwhile, Lord Brendan and Princess Elowyn had found their way to a large, thick-walled fortress.  As they stood before those walls, looking up at its many-towered enormity, they glanced at one another.  This place, it was obvious, was an area that not many people were permitted to enter.  It was a place that kept its secrets in, and everyone else out.

And when Elowyn closed her eyes, and carefully reached out into the shadows, she could detect, very faintly, the echoing nuances of _someone_'s presence.  Far from her, this someone was, and seemingly ensconced within both stone and earth.  But this was impossible – wasn't it?  Where could they have put Jaedin that would have been—

Then, from within her mind… 

_Elowyn…_

He said her name slowly, huskily, drawing out its syllables to make it long and flowing, liquid in its grace: no longer simply bright and musical, speaking of the sunlight and the daytime, but of something else entirely.  He made it seem like a caress, and she could _see_ him drawing his fingertips along the side of her face, smiling down at her as she let his presence wash over her in dark, black velvet waves, pouring into her.  Before, she would have thought him arrogant – for invading her mind the way he did: touching her thoughts in a way that she had never permitted anyone to do, and causing her to have thoughts of only him.  

Again, the whisper…

_Ell-o-wyn…_

She reached out, blindly, within her mind, trying to reach him – to touch him, but all she felt was air.  And she became suddenly terrified – he was within her, as she was within him, and yet now she could only just hear him calling her name, from somewhere within the void.  A great gulf was coming in between them, with arms that were now moving to push them apart, separating him from her.  No!  If she had to plunge into the darkness, then she would do so – at least she would be in his arms.  Let the darkness come, but he would be there to protect her.  Protect her? her better senses screamed at her, enraged by this unthinkable, dastardly affront.  Protect her – a Dark Lord?  What was she thinking?  How could she honestly—

"Now is not the time to think," she murmured to herself.  She turned to Brendan. "He's here!" she told him, urgently. "He's here – they have him locked up somewhere, but he's within this fortress.  We must find him!"

Brendan nodded, the low light from the torches that flamed nearby – on the walls – glancing upon his head and shoulders, making his dark green tunic and gray wool cloak seem tainted with fire: his sandy hair highlighted with streaks of gold.  He reached out and took her hand, as they began to run for the building's entrance.

"We must," was his reply. "But I know not _how_ we shall find him."

And somehow, she knew that his words had more than one meaning.

*                       *                       *

As Elowyn and Brendan entered the empty jail-fortress and began their desperate search for the captured Dark Lord, Robbie and Sala escaped through the streets of the city and rode out into the plains once again: there to wait for their friends' arrival.  Their part of the escape was done.

The light of the torch that Elowyn carried in one hand, lifted high to allow her to see far ahead of herself, splashed and flickered madly over the cold, smooth stone walls of the corridor that she now ran down.  Brendan followed close behind her, silent but for a word of guidance or warning to her now and then.  

Somehow, her sense of Jaedin's presence was leading her not into one of the many prison cells within the fortress, but to the places deep beneath the fortress itself: a maze of interconnected tunnels, chambers, and dead ends that seemed to have no end.  

It reminded her of a crypt.

As she ran, she kept calling out to him, trying to reestablish her connection with him, trying to make him respond to her.  But it seemed as if he couldn't – every once in a while, she would catch a faint flicker of life, of recognition and awareness, and she would hear him whisper her name within her head, but that sense was growing weaker and weaker, dying.

She brushed this thought off; she would not think of it.

_You will not die!_

The corridor that she ran through was slanting downwards, at an increasingly steeper incline, and she felt herself begin to slip.  Frantically, she put out a hand to the wall, in an attempt to steady herself, but the stone was smooth and treacherous: slippery, and she felt herself begin to fall.  Arms came from behind to help her up then and she glanced briefly into the worried eyes of her uncle.  He was thinking of something, and it did not look as if it were something good; however, when she tried to read him, she was met with a barrier of thought, and could not go any further.  Brendan helped her to her feet and spoke as they ran on.

"There's not much time left, Elowyn – we must find him now, if at all."

_If at all…_

Elowyn bit back a surge of overwhelming emotion at this, and plunged on ahead, desperately trying to see through the haze of tears that threatened to overwhelm her vision.  Why was it that only now – now, when she had at last made her decision to trust, to take things as they came to her, and no longer question – was she faced with this loss?  She was not certain that she could bear the gravity of a separation from the one person who, it seemed more and more, could give her the answer to all the mysteries in her life; she shied away from even the thought of it—

Suddenly, they were both standing in a chamber that was completely pitch black, and very, very cold: its walls entirely constructed of stone – pure stone – with no torches placed anywhere about to light the darkness.  Elowyn stopped, her breath echoing in the silence.

"Brendan," she whispered, scarcely daring to move, "What is this place?"

"It's a tomb."

A blade of pain shot through her then, as she tried again to get a sense of where Jaedin might be, in this place; it was a pain unlike any she had ever known, a white-hot agony that seared into her and filled her mind to the bursting point with its intensity.

_His pain._

"_Brendan_!"

Her scream immediately brought her uncle to her side, but she tore herself away and went running further into the darkness; her torch illuminated the massive bulk of a sarcophagus, upon which had been detailed the figures of some kind of pagan deities, with words – runes in the language of the people of Isiravadad – etched into its lid.  Elowyn dropped the torch onto the floor and put her hands on the lid, frantically pulling at it.

"He's here, he's here," she said, over and over again, sobbing the words; tears of both anger and fear streamed from her eyes, as she imagined what Jaedin's captors might have done to him before throwing him into the uninhibited darkness of a tomb. "Brendan, he's here – this is where they put him, they left him _here_!" 

Brendan tried to speak to her, tried to make her move away from the stone coffin, but she flailed at him like a madwoman, refusing to slacken her attempts to remove the lid from the thing.  Finally, he put both arms around her waist and simply – and unapologetically – moved her aside.

"Elowyn." 

The tone in his voice brooked no argument, and she looked at him – her face pale and tear-stained, her hair hanging in limp, wild strands about her head and shoulders.  Brendan unsheathed his sword, and gestured for her to do the same. 

"_Together_."

Little had either of them expected just how heavy the sarcophagus' top portion would be; even with the pry bar-like leverage of their swords and their combined faery strengths – which was considerably more than even several humans could exert – the lid only just began to move.  Air hissed out from the thing as they did so, raising a cloud of dust in the room and making them both cough.  Then – slowly, as the centuries seemed to tick by, moving in slow motion – the lid began to move; inch by inch, moving, stone scraping across stone…

The darkness within the coffin was revealed; the two faeries managed to shove the lid onto the ground; it fell through the air, nearing the floor…

_BOOM!_

Elowyn, without a moment's hesitation, threw herself to the side of the great stone fixture, and had her arms reaching down into it before Brendan had even realized it.  She was weeping again – silent, with hot tears of rage and hurt – as she put her hands out into the shadows.  Something was there – something stiff and mostly cold, but with faint warmth to it.  She groped around and found the broad expanse of an unmoving chest, then laid her hand flat on top of it.  _Heartbeat – let me find a heartbeat; if there is one prayer I may have answered, let it be this one_, she prayed, desperately, within her mind._  Let me find a heartbeat: let him live._

His heart did indeed still beat; Jaedin moved against her hand, at her touch.

"Quickly – get him out."

At Brendan's abrupt order, they together reached underneath their fallen guide and brought him out of what had almost been his place of interment.  The torches were fading, having been dropped onto the ground as Brendan and Elowyn had worked on removing the lid of the coffin, and when she looked into what would have been the face of the Dark Lord of Sytherria, she could see nothing.  Nothing, that was, but a swath of bandages, over all the features.

"Jaedin—" she said; alarmed, she turned to Brendan for answers, but before her uncle could reply, the living mummy's head swiveled in her direction.  From beneath the thick linen strips, she heard him make a noise, as if he were trying to speak – trying to breathe, but couldn't very well.

"El-wyn.  _Eh-yo-wyn_."

He began to move shakily in her arms, as if he was trying to find her – blind, and bereft of his senses – and she remembered, almost too late, how much taller and how much heavier he was than she.  His greater weight, as he grew nearly limp with only her and Brendan's mere hands to hold him up, nearly knocked her over.  She raised her hands and placed them on either side of his head, a sickening shockwave going through her as the skin of her palms came into contact with the burial strips.  The mummy ceased his movement, although he continued to breathe unsteadily, and she felt that he was looking at her, even though he could not _see_ her.  He was listening.

"Jaedin," she repeated.

There: now he knew it was her.  Jaedin instantly recognized that voice – even though his mind had become almost as a blank, he knew that voice: the tones that reminded him so much of thin, nearly insubstantial wisps of gray smoke, and silvery velvet, and dawn on a pale spring morning.  It was she – it was his princess.  

Elowyn felt his enshrouded arm move against her back, flattening itself against her gown until it met fully her spine, felt its warmth.  She didn't realize what he was doing until it was almost too late; he leaned forward, concealed face coming close to hers, and spoke, his voice coming out as a garbled mutter, a jangle of words that she could not understand, as he moved his hand against her spine, trailing it slowly up towards her shoulder blades.  

Oh yes, he knew it was her, and he had no hesitation about proving it, he told her, within her mind.  There, he was Jaedin himself again, and not the limp, weakened figure whom she now held in her arms.  

_Get away from me,_ she ordered the specter in her head, with unveiled disgust.  _Leave us alone.  Leave me._

And, surprisingly enough, he did.

Elowyn then turned to Brendan.

"We leave – now."

*                       *                       *

They found the Silver City in an uproar, with people of all ages, shapes, and sizes running about like mad; hence, they managed to make their way through the streets virtually unmarked, their nearly unconscious companion with them.  Once they had reached the fields outside the city, Brendan and Elowyn revealed that their mission had been a success, and all five departed.

Never would they return to Isiravadad.

*                       *                       *

It was dawn by the time that they stopped riding, and by then, none of them knew where they were.  They could have been so far off-course that even Jaedin would have been hard-pressed to tell them of their location, but this was a scarce-heeded thought.  Among the gifts from the Pings and Hobknobs had been several quite remarkable gifts, and not the least among these was a splendid, several-room tent, which would instantly set itself up upon being removed from the pack that it was carried in.  This item was brought out; here, they would spend the night.

Without a moment's delay for rest or refreshment, Elowyn and Brendan laid Jaedin's all-but lifeless body onto a cot, and quickly began to remove the linen strips that his captors had so carefully wound around his body.  Brendan looked as his niece as they worked.

"Elowyn," he said, carefully. "We've no knowledge of what they might have done to him – are you certain that you want to be here when these are all removed?"

He gestured at the rapidly growing pile of linen on the ground.

Elowyn paused for a moment, balking at his words.  It was true – she had dealt with blood and wounds to an extent, before, but not greatly.  Jaedin's injuries, inflicted upon him by his enemies…  But then, the figure on the cot groaned, moving in a painful, piteous manner upon the cot, and she felt her heartstrings thrum in response, striking a deep chord within her.  No: no matter what her own inhibitions were, she would not leave him at this hour.  Not when he needed her.

And so she shook her head, resolutely.

"No, Brendan," she said. "My place is here.  I will not shirk it."

Brendan held his gaze on her for a moment longer, then nodded: accepting her decision, and motioned for her to begin undoing the wrappings on his arm.  "Then if that is what you wish, it shall be so; I will be glad of your help."

Then, together, they continued the process. 

It took them a very long while to remove all the wrappings, and when they did, there was an enormous heap of bloodied linen strips on the floor.  Elowyn took a step back when they – at last – removed the shroud about his head.  Her hands went to her mouth, as if she were trying to hold back words, a shriek, or nausea.  Possibly all three, Brendan reflected; he turned a grim pair of eyes on the injured Dark Lord.  He had seen grievous injuries before, but this…

He quite understood her look of pale-faced, wide-eyed, disbelieving horror.

"_Oh Fates_." Elowyn breathed, her breast heaving as she struggled for breath, unable to calm herself. "_What did they do to him?_"

Calmly, analytically, Brendan named off the causes of the injuries – repeated torture with various instruments, beatings, broken bones, internal poisoning, induced vomiting, dehydration, floggings, and over-exposure to the sunlight.  The Dark Lord must have been a highly resilient vampyre, he noted: capable of enduring much pain and stress.  Any other vampyre would have died after an hour of such torment.

And Jaedin had lived through an entire day of it.

Brendan looked back at Elowyn, marking her pallid features and trembling movements.  "Elowyn," he said, solemnly, "We've got to get this silver out of his blood – its poison will surely end him if we do not act quickly.  Will you be able to help me?"

She nodded, gazing at the figure lying before her.  It hardly even looked like Jaedin – all of the proud, sharp features were still there, but they were now marred with sickness and injury.  His head was lined with what appeared to be bulging, stressed veins, his skin white.  Around his eyes was a ring of dark, purplish-red, and the grayness of his eyes themselves, when he opened them to stare, narrowly, at his surroundings – at the people he did not recognize – were almost devoid of their black pupils, having turned a disturbing shade of blue-gray, bloodshot.  His full lips were an ashy purple, bringing out the stark red line of his scar, and around them – even within his mouth – she saw traces of thick, scarlet blood.

Looking at the rest of him made it even worse.  He had what she abstractedly noted to be one of the most perfect forms she had ever seen – the Dark Lord was long-limbed, tall, and graceful, with strong and elegant hands, she had already known, but now she saw just how finely proportioned he was.  His tormentors had left him his pair of black velvet breeches, but these were now tattered and bloodied, hanging in shreds about his legs; his chest and arms were marked with horrendous gashes and tears, bruised to epic proportions, and his back was entirely covered by long, raw, open wounds.  _Whip lashes._  Her eyes traveled down the length of his still form, seeing more – battered legs, smashed ribs, burn marks.  

He had only two scars – the one on his lip, and one on his wrist.

The latter she remembered only too well.

As they went to work on him, hoping desperately to save his life – the life of the one who had, at one time, been sent out with the directive to murder them all – Elowyn knew only one thing: knew only five words, which resounded in her mind, directing her sole attention upon the figure of her fallen Dark Lord…

_Istver-ar, eran su aman.   _

_One within me – master and only lover of my inner self._

*                       *                       *

A/n:  Ooh, dark, long, and angsty!  My cup of tea.  *smiles benignly at gaping readers*  Oh, come now, don't look so disturbed.  You know I won't put him through anything truly nasty…anything that lasts for quite a long while and begins with the letter D, that is, and is personified with the figure we all know as the Grim Reaper…come to think of it, that's more of Jaedin's own persona, so definitely not to worry.  It'll be all right soon…  Meanwhile, I shall sit back and wait for reviews (please…?) and will update soon, as I have quite a few chapters on hand to post right now.  Just wait until I get bored, my friends…

In the meantime, r&r, and I hope this little (ha-ha and HA) story of mine puts a nice little cloud-drift of fantasy and faery tales in your lives as we all – well, all right, _some_ of us – head back to school…


	29. Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty-six –

Words

Jaedin dreamed of many strange – and some not so strange – visions as his companions were working feverishly over him during the morning hours, those of the day, and then into the night. Little did he know, as he watched countless images play in front of his eyes, of how much danger he was in, although he would soon recall it, upon awakening.

There, in these dreams, he saw Elowyn, over and over again; the sight of her was what kept him from plunging into insanity, even in his subconscious state. She was so beautiful, and he wanted to reach out and touch her so badly, to take her in his arms and run his fingers through all her long, glorious pale gold curls, and feel her silky skin, smell her sweet scent. But, every time he put his hand out to brush it against the vision, her image would disappear. She always returned, but if he ever attempted to touch her – she left him.

Of course, this was a ploy of Elowyn's – in reality – to keep him alive, to fuel his will to leave. She knew that the thought of her gave him strange, renewed life, somehow; that was the only way she could describe how he looked at her, how he spoke to her, how he acted around her. Reminding him that, in the black void of death, she would not exist…she knew that _that_ would force him into willing himself to live. So, by her arts of magic and enchantment, she sent him dream after dream – not really knowing, in her own mind, of what _his_ mind would make of thoughts concerning her. 

But then, she really didn't care – as long as it kept him alive. 

She and Brendan remained at the sickbed for hour upon hour, neither of them leaving at the same time for even an instant. When one of them did take a moment to rest and breathe, Robbie or Sala would bring them something to eat, or drink; then, they would return to tending their patient. 

The day passed slowly, wearing on and on. 

Sometimes he would briefly become conscious again, but when he looked at them, he did not recognize their faces. Through narrowed slits of eyes, he would cast about the room: the movements of those eyes erratic and never resting on anything for long. 

He would also plunge unexpectedly into the arms of a raging fever, his brow burning as his caretakers desperately applied cold clothes to his forehead, fanning his exposed chest and breathing spells of faery magic. Then, he would turn right around and begin to shake – violently – with uncontrollable chills. Elowyn was more than once obliged to hastily throw four or more blankets over him, and then curl herself up beside him, to cradle his trembling upper body against her own frame, in an attempt to warm him. 

The closeness that they shared then was unusual: she and the Dark Lord. As she held him close to her, her fingertips would abstractedly, without her realizing it, be tracing a gentle line over the skin of his cheek and scalp as she succumbed to deep thought. She could feel his breathing: shallow and hot against her own skin, underneath her wrists, against her shoulder, in his chest, and all she could do was remain where she was, and pray – pray for his recovery, and the fate of their world. The fact that they had once been worst enemies mattered little now. She could not let him die. More than the destiny of Evyrworld hung in the balance. Much more.

_And, besides that, he had laid aside their animosity to heal her – why then should she not do the same for him…?_

When he was awake, Elowyn tried to get him to put something in his stomach – the soup and bread she brought in, water now and again – but what he didn't wind up vomiting out, he simply refused: beginning to murmur again, in that strange, elegantly musical and foreign language that she knew to be his own. At times, as she sat beside him, her hand over his to keep track of his vacillating pulse, when he would speak that language in his sleep, as his eyes flickered underneath their lids. It was also in those times, when she was there – alone – with him, that she would wonder what exactly was going on inside of his head. 

Telling from the way he thrashed and twisted about in his bed, she knew that some of the dreams that filled his head were far from happy. Then, she would mull pensive and silently over the thought that, perhaps, these dreams contained visions of his past, and she knew that this – whatever it was – had not been an enjoyable thing for him to recall, once it had been dredged up from the depths of his mind.

Brendan was a master at the art of faery medicine, among his other lesser-known talents, and he did all that he could to bring the injured Dark Lord back to health. But even with their combined efforts, nothing seemed to have any effect on him.

In the end, Elowyn realized, it would be Jaedin alone who caused life to return to his body again. _But why would he not want to live?_

As the sun began to set that day, however, it appeared that a decision had been made, somewhere within the illness-wracked form of the Dark Lord; for his frame relaxed upon the cot, he began to breathe deeply and regularly again, and slept peacefully. Brendan put a hand to his wrist, closing his eyes to briefly read his patient's condition, and then exhaled: a long, slow sigh of immense relief and, she noticed, satisfaction. He looked at her after a moment, the darkness flitting out of his eyes, like shadows at dawn.

"The poison has spent itself," he told her, quietly. "He'll make a quick recovery now, as long as he doesn't overexert himself, or encounter any of his vampyric banes again."

Elowyn could only acknowledge his words with a slight movement of her head. Sweet, fresh joy was engulfing her in waves, and all she could do was think, _How incredible. How utterly, insurmountably wonderful. Jaedin, you'll live. And I will wait._

* * *

The next morning, Elowyn slept in deliciously, sinfully late: taking unabashed pleasure in the fact that she did not have to spend hour upon hour of anxiety-wracked waiting and working over a languishing patient. Jaedin, when she tiptoed to the gauzy fabric door of his room in the sage-green tent that the Pings and Hobknobs had given them, was still sleeping peacefully; but when she approached him and leaned down over him, eyes roving over his features in search of any remaining signs of illness, something startling happened.

A long, soft tendril of her hair slipped down over her shoulder, and touched his bare collarbone; she hastily swept it back, behind her shoulder again, but it was too late. Jaedin stirred in his sleep – suddenly – and without warning, his arms lifted from the bed, and came around her, curving themselves against the back of her shoulders. His ungloved hands were smooth and unscarred, but for that line on his forearm, and they were also strong – _very_ strong. 

He murmured in his sleep again: "_Merron nenein_…"

Her breath strangling in her throat, Elowyn restrained her urge to gasp loudly and run; she managed to quickly remove his hands from their places on her back, and then tore herself away. She left the room without a glance behind herself, and stepped out into the breezy, cool morning air. Here, she stopped and looked around.

Already, the sun was shining; they were back in the forest again, only it was a different stretch of woods this time, and she supposed that only Jaedin, once he had awakened, could tell them how they would once again find their course to the Dark Gate.

Jaedin.

The thought of him made her blush – furiously, which was considerable colouring of her cheeks, for she had not yet lost that which had been caused moments before, when he had so nearly embraced her. She wondered, furtively, if he had really been sleeping.

_But, then,_ she reflected, as she began to move off, towards a different part of their little camp, _Knowing Jaedin, he would not have stopped at a mere embrace. I might have gotten at least a kiss from him – but that is not what I had been there for. Really, it wasn't._

And the Dark Lord, had he been standing there, would have looked at her with an air of male complacency and amusement, his head cocked slightly to one side as his lips curled at their corners, with arrogance: his gray eyes glittering at her engagingly. 

_'Oh, of course it wasn't!'_ he would have said to her, as he took a step towards her. _'Really, Princess – you oughtn't lie to yourself so. It's only a waste of time – your time, and, more importantly, _my _time.'_

Indeed: arrogant was definitely a word to describe him, and she could have thought up several more suited descriptions for him, in a moment, if she had been asked.

But now he slept, thank the Fates, and she could have a moment to herself. She turned and moved towards the central part of the camp. 

There, she could already hear Robbie and Brendan debating over something – was that plant that they had stepped on Pixillian Itching Wort, or wasn't it? Robbie said yes, Brendan said no – and Sala was observing them with an air of great interest and vast feminine tolerance as she stirred the fire at her feet slightly. Elowyn gave her uncle and nephew a glance as she entered the semi-circle that the tent and fire made, and sat down beside Sala, who shook her head, her eyes never leaving the two masculine figures before them. Then, she turned to Elowyn.

"How are things?"

Elowyn smiled a bit and let her head come to rest on Sala's obliging shoulder as her dear friend threw an arm about the younger girl's shoulders and rocked her back and forth a bit, comforting her. "I feel as if I could sleep for years and years and still not drive the memories of yesterday and the night before that from my mind," she said. "I hated seeing him that way…he was so…so utterly lost. It was almost worse than seeing him as my captor."

"Words truly spoken by the one who is to save the world," commented Sala, with a smile that reflected her perpetual good nature.

The other girl shot her a wry half-smile, green eyes flickering.

"I'm not so sure I wouldn't rather forget that."

"Among quite a few other things, no?" Sala asked, as she stood. She gestured sharply at Robbie and Brendan, who were still debating – only now the subject had moved on to who knew more of the local flora and fauna, uncle or nephew. 

"Hey, wonky fools," she called. When she had their attentions, she jerked her head at Elowyn and informed them, "Elowyn and I are heading out to that stream nearby to freshen ourselves up a bit. I simply refuse to go _three_ days without bathing. So it's up to you two to somehow manage to both behave yourselves and watch over the camp – and remember that we have a convalescing patient who might need your assistance, should he awaken. We'll be back in an hour or so."

And with that, Sala made an indication with her eyes for Elowyn to leave the camp's inner circle and follow her, making their departure without another word.

Once they had gone back into the tent, Sala led the way to the room that she and her cousin shared. The structure was truly marvelous, for the wonder of its ability to set itself up and then take itself down, at a command, was not its only trick – it was also quite spacious, compared to other tents, and would take no wear or abuse, from any of the elements. 

Their bedding remained fresh and unsullied by dirt or moisture, nor would they find puddles at their feet after a rainstorm, or jagged, irritating roots sticking up through the lush carpets that covered the ground underneath the tent itself. Mounds of ornately embroidered and plumply stuffed pillows were all about, along with hanging wall sconces to illuminate the night hours they spent awake, and brass incense burners, and not a few tables and chairs, which they had found were easily folded and stowed away. 

And in each room, there had appeared yet another thoughtful accommodation – gold-bound chests which, when opened, revealed themselves to be carriers of fresh clothing, footwear, and even toiletries, which seemed to renew itself every morning. 

Or simply whenever they happened to need it. 

Sala opened her chest – which was accented with sapphires and rubies, and bore the large initial of S on its lid – and quickly found the necessary items to take with them for washing up. Elowyn dug into her own chest, which was detailed with emeralds and diamonds all over, in the shapes of trailing vines and exploding stars, her name's first letter engraved upon the top as well. 

Within it, she found not only a huge, fluffy white towel and cloth for her face, but also a vial of perfume that shimmered an entrancing golden-amber when she held it up to the sunlight and swirled it around a bit. 

And, to her surprise, there was a new gown today.

Its colour was what initially drew her attention, and she quickly, wordlessly, with a frown beginning to etch into her fair young features, reached down into the depths of the chest to retrieve it. Her fingertips came into contact with a silky, weighted material that she knew – instantly, upon bringing the item of the chest, holding it by its shoulders – would be clinging and seamless over her frame. 

It was a truly ravishingly beautiful hue: a deep garnet that reminded her of both those exact gemstones, and a bleeding sunset. Its design was simple: a curving neckline that swooped down to a gathered V at the bodice, its waist formfitting until just below her hips, where it plunged down into a full, flowing wealth of ample skirts, its hem meant to trail out a little ways behind her. Its sleeves were just tailored enough to glide smoothly over her arms above the elbow, and then they too swept down to become full and flowing, only just exposing her longest fingers. Its back laced up, all the way from the small of her spine to her shoulder blades.

Elowyn stared at it for a moment, unable to think of anything else: not even hearing Sala as she moved around behind her. 

Then, when her cousin finally spoke, she at last awakened out of her daze.

"Are you ready to go? Elowyn?"

Abruptly, almost guiltily, she came out of her reverie, and smiled apologetically at her friend. "I'm sorry, Sala," she said. "I must be getting more absentminded than I thought. Yes – I'm ready. Let's be off, then."

But her companion was also female, and knew better than she thought the workings of her fellow woman's mind. As they walked through the trees that surrounded the little clearing their camp was within and then down the slight hill that led towards the nearby stream, which they could already hear babbling in the distance, Sala began a new train of discussion – she cut quickly and without preamble or apology to the chase. 

"So; that dress rather unnerved you when you first saw it – and it still does, when you look at it now, unless I miss my guess, and I don't think I _do_," she added, surreptitiously, eyeing her cousin out of the corner of her vision, "Because you immediately saw it as a possible means for subliminal messaging to your erstwhile admirer, the Dark Lord Jaedin of Sytherria. Am I correct?"

Elowyn stopped, and gave her a blank look.

Inwardly, she was cursing herself, _Oh Fates, blast it! Why did I ever…how can I explain…will she ever…bloody underworlds!_

Sala took her cousin's expression for the answer it was, and wove her arm through the other girl's, leading them both on as she continued.

"I thought as much. I must confess, Elowyn, you've had me guessing in complete puzzlement for a long while now – in fact, since we had to use your necklace on this Dark Lord we've now teamed up with, in order to keep him from killing us all. _If_ that is what he might have wanted." 

She added this last as a sort of wry afterthought. Then, she turned to Elowyn, eyes searching the face of her friend. 

"When you look at a dress as if it might bite you, it can _only_ mean a very few things, Elli – now, _please_, talk to me."

Elowyn looked back at her for a moment, her own eyes scanning deep and searchingly over the face that looked into hers; finally, she sighed and lowered her eyes, going to sit down on a fallen log near the edge of the little sanded area that fronted the wide stream. She began to slowly remove her long hair from its bindings – having had its upper layer tied back, so that it would not obscure her vision – and spoke as she did so.

"I've not wanted to talk to anyone about it for all this time, Sala…not even him. I've kept pushing it away, pushing it – pushing _him_ – out of my mind, until it threatened to almost drive me mad…drive me mad, because I knew that it was there, to stay, and nothing I could do would make it otherwise." 

She looked up into her friend's unreadable, pretty features, toying with the ends of her own shimmering golden hair as she revealed, "He's a part of me now, Sala. He has been, for a long time – such a long time. When I was in his palace, as his captive…"

And she held back the involuntary shudder. She had not spoken of this to anyone – save to Jaedin himself – in all of the time since it had come to pass. 

And now she would have to let the truth be known, in broad daylight.

So, without fuss or hesitation then, she began to speak – began to tell her dear friend of all that had befallen her, all that she had experienced, during her time in the Dark Lord's palace of _Dranthiris-Ankhar_. She did not attempt to lessen or blur the details of all that he had said, all that he had done, when she spoke of him; nor did she shirk away from bringing to light the absolute truth of everything that she had said and done – how she had reacted when he had tried to win her over, tried to make her love him, to agree to be his, and forever remain with him in his fortress: the two of them against the world. She spoke with forthright honesty of her own reaction to the moment he had kissed her. 

Yes, if anyone wanted to know, she had enjoyed that moment; yes, she had allowed him to woo her, intensify the microscopic attraction that she had felt for him – deep within her soul – into something much greater. And yes, she now knew – she would confess – that that attraction had not been _solely_ of _his_ making.

However, whether she could now _love_ him: whether she could ever even so much as imagine letting herself love him, she did not know. He was a Dark Lord, and even though she felt that she was, somehow, connected to him, she would not let this hold sway over her judgment. But this connection, Sala asked her – how could it be? What did she mean by it, and her statement that he was 'a part of her'? 

To this, Elowyn shrugged. 

She did not really know herself what it meant, she said. All that she was yet aware of was the fact that she inherently knew that Jaedin could not lie to her, and she could sense his emotions, at times. She could also feel his pain, which had been proven only recently, and she ever sensed his presence within her mind.

It was likewise for him – he had a part of her within him as well.

She did not know how this was so; she did not know what it meant, but she was not totally putting the thought of finding it out from her mind. One day, this mystery – as all things – would be explained. As for now, only vague outlines of the future remained.

Would she do anything to save him?

Elowyn did not know how to answer this. Only the night before, she had asked herself the same question, and had only drawn a blank, instead of a revelation. At that point of time, knowing him to be her only means of saving everything and everyone she held dear, she had known that the answer was, unequivocally, _yes_. Always _yes_.

Perhaps the question was, she replied then, more towards – _could_ she do anything that would serve to save him? He was a Dark Lord; she did not know if this was within her power to do. But it was all well and good – they had still some time yet before their quest would be complete. Then, after that time, Elowyn knew that she would be forced to find – and give – some answers. Whether this would come to be at her own soul's behest, or at the arrogant, imperative command of _him_, it would be so.

And a strange chill went through her, as she thought of that.

How _would_ the Dark Lord exact his answers? When she considered this, a thousand different images flooded her mind, some quite violent and frightening, and others simply eerie. 

There, again, was his unsettling side; she could never forget it. 

And if she were to curse him blatantly, even within her mind, for bringing such things down upon her, she knew that he would only allow her to hear his laughter, and give her his promise that she would soon have at least that question answered.

The conversation between the two girls came to an end, as they brought out their various soaps and other luxury items. Soon enough, a pile of adventurers' clothing – heavy, well-wearing tunics, breeches, boots, and cloaks: all outerwear excepting their thick gray-white linen shifts, which needed a good washing anyway – were left lying on the sandy ground, as Sala and Elowyn entered the water.

It was a tad bit cold at first, when one first encountered it, and swimming with a long white nightgown-like thing on isn't quite easy, but before long, the princess and her companion were up to their shoulders in the surprisingly deep waters, immersing their entire bodies, and then their heads. The stream came to a slight rounded pool at the point where they now were, continuing on in either direction to its larger river tributaries. Willow and rowan trees surrounded them on all sides, and the sun danced through their branches as a trickle of playful breeze ran through the warm air. 

Sala – having the shorter locks of the pair – finished her bath first and emerged from the water. As she began to dry herself off, she cocked her head: listening. Then she turned to Elowyn, with a dry little smile playing about her lips.

"They're at it again, and even more fanatically this time," she said. "Really – you'd think it was a question of life or death, of personal, everlasting honour, by the way they debate back and forth. I wonder what it is now…"

And she began to move off, towards the camp, having instantly dried off her undergarments with a quick blast of magic, and donned her new gown: a dark gray affair of silk, with gently flared sleeves and a squared neckline. She turned back, once, before she left Elowyn alone. 

"You'll not mind if I go and cease their argument by putting some food in their stomachs, do you?"

Elowyn laughed and shook her head, sending crystal droplets of water flying everywhere with her movement. Under the water, she moved her arms and legs swiftly above to keep herself afloat. "Not at all, Sala my dear. Just be sure to put some tea on for me – please?"

Sala laughed as well and returned her smile.

"Tea, or chai?" she asked.

Elowyn considered for a moment, leisurely watching the branches dance merrily above her head. "Chai," she replied, after a moment; and Sala, hearing that, nodded and turned around once again, and left her there to finish.

When she was alone, Elowyn remained in the water for a little while longer, fully intending to get out and dress herself again, and start her day. 

But she was tempted into remaining. 

Everything around her was bright and fresh: the water a shimmering, mirror-like surface in the midst of the green forest. Each leaf on the trees and undergrowth around her seemed as if it was a perfectly cut emerald jewel, surrounded by glowing flowers of virtually every hue she could imagine. The sun shone brightly, and the air sang with the noises of birdsong, the breeze, bees and other insects humming, and the gentle babble of the waters of the stream. 

All her thoughts of their previous discussion seemed to have simply flitted away, leaving her carefree and nonchalant – as if there was no encroaching war between the forces of good and evil in the world, nor her own uncertainties about the future to haunt her, nor a certain Dark Lord—

Fate, of course, has the _most_ amazing sense of sarcasm.

Not five minutes had passed when she became aware of a presence nearby her. She had been looking, just seconds before, at a tree that stood on the bank above the water: a twisted, interestingly shaped thing draped with hangings of rich green moss, which had drawn her eye with its peculiar curves. It had been empty, then. Just a tree. Now, when she turned around abruptly in the water and looked back at it, she saw that she was _not_ alone.

Her inevitable, unavoidable guest stood on the bank above her, leaning against the tree with one elbow propped up against a low-hanging branch, his arms folded, head cocked to one side, and his left ankle hooked casually over his right. 

Elowyn looked back at him: risen out of the water so that only her head and shoulders showed above its glassy surface. Her hair was slicked back on her scalp, gleaming in the sun even though it was quite wet, and her mermaid's eyes – those eyes of alluring jade green – glared out at him from within her lovely young faery face.

Quite the affront.

Through clenched teeth, in a very carefully controlled tone of voice, she addressed him, as he stood there: continuing to watch her in his blasé, although vaguely investigative and overall insolently supercilious manner.

"_You_!" she said, sending him a look that would have melted a glacier in the frozen North, "What are you doing up and out of bed – and walking around?"

The way that she said those words made it explicitly obvious that she thought his presence there quite unacceptable, and although Jaedin knew that she immensely desired him to be back in his place in the tent, sleeping again, he could not deny his own personal inclinations. 

It didn't matter whether she liked it or not, his being there – he would make her like it, soon enough. She would simply have to learn to like it.

But, still, he had enough chivalry within him to give her an answer.

So, as he moved away from the tree and began to walk slowly down the small incline that it was situated atop of, coming to stand closer to the water, with her following him with his eyes – still glaring – he made a return-fire of sorts.

"Do you know how disgusting it is," he asked, beginning to undo the ties of his cloak – which were, abruptly and very irritatingly, refusing to oblige him; he tugged, and was rewarded with success – "To lie a-bed, in the middle of the day, wasting away the long hours when everyone else is up and about, with their freedom?"

He threw the cloak to the ground, which sent sand flying everywhere, and Elowyn briefly turned her head aside to avoid spraying particles. 

Jaedin grinned and continued, with knowing arrogance, "And besides – even at that, I have never and most likely _will never_ ask anyone's permission to do anything; nor will I apologize for my actions, or give in to any attempt at coercion. Where would I be left if I did? No, Princess," he said, as he gently lowered himself into a sitting position on the mossy bank, "I am here of my own choice, and there is simply nothing that you can do or say to make me leave. If you don't like it, you will soon learn to."

She wanted to walk right up to him and slap him across his face right then – no matter how handsome she had found it, ever – at the look of arrogance and male dominance that he sent her. Instead, she turned her back on him.

Unmoving, he watched her movement with an expression of interest, amused interest, playing about his features then; but in his gray eyes glittered the look of a hunter. His unknowing prey no longer faced towards him, and seemed confident in the fact that he would come no closer, so long as she was immersed in the water. What could he do…

_Wrong there, Princess. Very _dead_ wrong._

"That didn't answer my question," Elowyn muttered, inwardly seething with irritation. 

_Speak of the devil_… she thought to herself, grinding her teeth furiously as she called the Dark Lord several highly creative names in her head. 

And she had hoped to enjoy a peaceful morning – so much for _that_ thought. If he made himself sick again, she would leave him to heal himself this time; there would be no quarter for pity on her part, then. He hadn't answered her, still, and – too late, she felt – she realized it.

"Jaedin…"

Oh well, at least she had been expecting it. 

_SPLASH!_ went the water behind her, and she turned around, her gaze briefly attracted to the new pile of clothes that had been left on the little beach: a flimsy white silk shirt, a pair of boots, and that black cloak that she had seen him wearing. Which meant…

"_Arrgh_!"

And she gave a squeak of protest along with that enraged female growl as she felt hands – ungloved and very masculine, very strong hands – come around her from behind. They quickly latched onto her, in the curve beneath her arms: pushing her forwards and then twirling her around so that she faced her assailant. Little more than a foot away, Jaedin regarded her with a full grin dazzling upon his features. He looked very pleased with himself.

"An answer? You wish an answer of me, Princess?" he questioned her, almost mockingly – certainly teasing. 

He swept his arms out beneath the water a bit, creating a current that stirred the skirts of the long shift she wore, and came nearer to her. Elowyn instantly and without pause for consideration moved away. 

Jaedin grinned all the wider at her reaction to his movement.

She was like a skittish little filly – this he knew. A pretty little mare, who would prance about and flirt her voluminous, wavy golden mane at him, her would-be master, the figure in the distance who approached her with commands and a will to dominate, to show her that – together – they could do wonders in life. She wouldn't relinquish her freedom easily, and he was entirely certain that she would never, _ever_ allow him to win.

But _that_, perhaps, was why he loved her so much…

Elowyn continued to move backwards, out into the deeper water of the stream, and he followed her. They circled around one another, almost without even meaning to, their eyes never once leaving each other. Gradually, she was closer and closer to him. 

But then the faery princess employed a rather insidious, girlish trick on him. She kicked her feet sharply in the water, and splashed him soundly across the face. 

Jaedin blinked water from his eyes, and looked after her. 

No one else would have ever dared to do that. He watched her, their eyes never once straying from one another, and felt his hunter's instincts stir within him. 

_Oh no, Princess,_ he thought, letting her hear his voice in her head, saying this to her – _I'm not letting you get away that easily. You said that you wanted an answer, did you not? I am giving one to you…_

_If you'll but wait._

Elowyn stopped swimming away, and faced him. Something flickered through her eyes then – something dark, which almost appeared to be alarm to him, but he brushed this off as he moved towards her again. He reached out, carefully and gently entangling his fingers in the drifting strands of her wet hair. He looked thoughtful for a moment, considering them.

Then, finally, "I was lonely."

Elowyn bit back a laugh, irritated at him as she was. Mastering her inward amusement – but not before he had gotten some sense of it – she retorted, archly, "You know, for a vampyre who has had as many narrowly-avoided brushes with death as you, and yet lived, you still seem to have quite the death wish."

Her companion's shaved head jerked up – suddenly – and he was looking into her face again. She sensed him trying to read her, and tilted her head back, arching her eyebrows in superiority. _Search me,_ she challenged him, in her mind. _ Look into my head and see what you can find there – but I warn you, 'twill be for naught._

But Jaedin's eyes were suddenly glittering again, with that narrowed, darkness-tainted look that she simply did not like – at all. It only remained for a split second however, for he pushed the moment aside.

"Far from it, Princess," he told her, with smooth, urbane elegance and implacable calm regard in his tone. "I am already feeling in much better health. I thank you, and your uncle, for your efforts to revive me."

There was an undercurrent of truth there, despite their bantering from the moment before, and it slightly disconcerted her – she had not been expecting it.

Hastily, she took her eyes from him: only just at that moment having become aware of just how things were, in reality. He had always told her that he found her immensely attractive – beautiful, from the beginning; now, as she looked at him, as they resided there in the water for that silent moment, she realized that she could say the exact same of _him_. 

He had indeed healed with startling alacrity. She was amazed at how this could be the same person who had lain in such a seemingly deathly state upon his own cot, alternately trembling with a chill and then burning with a fever – the same person who had had the markings of horrible torture, the level of which she would not allow herself to imagine, etched all over his body. Now, even his eyes had become normal again…

And, right at that moment, those eyes were watching her – very carefully.

He expected her to bolt.

_Run, but you know that it won't take long for me to find you – or catch you,_ he told her. _It never did, it never has. You know this is true. You were able to avoid me for a time, but we can never remain apart for long. But – run, if you want. Run._

It was almost a taunt – it was a challenge.

So, instead, Elowyn returned them to reality.

"You're welcome."

She spoke these words softly, and then turned, slowly coming up out of the water and onto the shore. Her small, slender faery feet hardly leaving any mark in the pale sand that lay thickly there, she went to retrieve her towel and her cloak. 

After a moment of silence, she heard movement in the water, and sensed – rather than saw – him come up onto the shore behind her, there to retrieve his own cloak and throw it over his shoulders, after he had replaced his shirt and hastily dried off his own soaking black velvet breeches: the only part of his wardrobe that he had allowed to get wet. They did not speak to one another for a moment; then Elowyn bit her bottom lip, considering an idea for continuing their conversation that had suddenly just popped into her head. She stood still, knowing that – were she to do it – the scene might take a turn that she might not like.

But…but the opportunity was just too interesting to pass up; some things just couldn't be refused… Slyly, she inquired: looking at him from behind, as she ran her gaze up and down his spine – _Fates! Where in the bloody underworlds did he come by musculature like that? I'll wager he's had more than his fair share of women falling at his feet!_—

"How long have you been up?"

Jaedin froze, was still for a second, and then pivoted around to face her. She sensed his interest – his reading of her – stirring in the air again.

"Oh…for about an hour now," he replied, standing still before her. His eyes dared her to be attracted to him, as she knew she was. What woman wouldn't be, when confronted with a face like his? When confronted with a mind, a spirit, like his?

She smiled, dryly.

"And only just this moment, you decided to come find me," she said, as if she were stating a mere dry fact.

_You knew I'd be alone, you goblin. You know I've have been thinking of you, and that my overwrought emotions would have me teetering on the edge of instability, and of course, what else could you do but take advantage of it—_

_Oh, for the sake of my poor, aching heart, Princess – allow me some credit, will you not? I am not such an opportunistic—_

_Predator? Wolf? Male chauvinist pig? Take your pick! Although I know that you wouldn't think they could describe you,_ she spat at him, mentally.

"Interesting, isn't it?" he agreed.

_Of course they describe me, Princess. I will not fight what I am. _ You_ – however – seem much prone to do so. Or will you now deny that the one greatest way you knew to ensure my living through the aftermath of my torment lay in my dreaming of you? Oh yes, Princess – I know where those dreams came from. They were drenched with the scent, with the power and presence, of you. I _know_ you._

Coolly, she said aloud, "Yes, just _isn't_ it."

_Deny it, Elowyn._

He shrugged, a rakish lift to one eyebrow.

"I like to keep people on their toes."

_And what if I_ won't_?_

"Rest assured, Dark One," she told him, stooping to pick up her towel, and at last continuing to dry herself off, "You do." 

That momentarily ended their discussion, as they again took up their former tasks; then, at length, Elowyn realized that something was missing from her pile of clothing. It had been there, just a moment before – she knew that she had brought it along…

"Now…where the dickens is my dress?" she murmured.

Jaedin was now reclining against a large tree root, watching her movements with an air of great interest and intensity. He had his hands folded behind his head, his long legs stretched out lazily in front of him – never mind the sand on his boots, or the moss against the back of his cloak – crossed over at the ankles. Finally, he turned aside a bit, reaching over to something that he'd kept within arm's length for the past little while.

Elowyn heard his inquiry from behind her—

"I believe you are looking for _this_?" he asked, and he left no doubt as to what it was. Elowyn slowly turned around, thunderbolts in her green eyes.

"Jaedin," she said, in a very low, very controlled voice – much like that which she had used at the beginning of their discussion – "Give it to me."

He stood, straightening himself to his full height with infinite precision and care – letting her know, fully, just exactly what odds she stood against, should she decide to embattle herself against him. He held her gown loosely in one hand, although they both knew that he could, and most likely would, tighten that grasp the instant she made the slightest move towards it. The Dark Lord and his Princess were at an impasse.

Gray eyes glittered, with a menacing amusement.

"_No_." he said.

Elowyn was silent for a brief moment, stiffening in rage and disgust, and then she dove for the deep red gown, making a grab at the arm that he held it in. Instantly, just as she had known it would, his other arm swooped down in front of her, and caught her around her waist and elbows, shoving her gently – but firmly – back. He was now regarding her with an open smirk, one eyebrow arched sharply. 

Her anger, and frustration, intensified. So: one moment, he would be thanking her for saving his life, and the next, he was stealing her dress and tormenting her with it? Well, if _that_ was how it was going to be—!

She made another grab for the dress, and this time, he made things worse – he lifted his arm high above his head, raising the garment far out of her reach as he kept her at bay with his free hand. 

With irritating ease.

"Do as I say – hand it over now!" she commanded, hopping up and down in an attempt to reach up high enough to recapture her stolen gown. 

Jaedin only looked more and more amused at her antics, effortlessly evading her, while still allowing her to come exactly as close to him as he wanted her to. 

"Oh, you are _horrid_! Give it to me – _give me my bloody dress_!"

"I don't think I will…" he taunted her, in a lilting, singsong voice.

She advanced on him, swiping like a cat. 

"You _silly_ vampyre."

At last, however, Elowyn managed to find the chink in his armor – dancing around him, she snaked her arm around his waist from behind and fluttered her fingers across his skin. Jaedin gave what appeared to have been some sort of violent tremor, his grip immediately slackening on the poor, abused deep red gown. In triumph, Elowyn whisked it away from him, out of his reach, and without a moment's further pause, pulled it on over her head. She was quite dry by _now_, and she gazed at him in triumph.

Jaedin stared at her, in what looked to be either stunned, disbelieving defeat or something quite different; she didn't wait to find out which it was.

"I really ought to just pitch you into the next available lava-pit we come across," she said, sharply eyeing him out of the corner of her vision. "You are—"

But then he was standing directly before her, and his arm had come around her waist, locking there as if it had a right to be in such a position. Elowyn looked up at him, and once more saw that unreadable expression in his eyes – the one that so deeply frightened and yet intrigued her. 

Predatory – that was what he was: a being capable of great power, of lightning fast movement and thought, who could strike out at any moment and utterly destroy any opponent of his, armed or unarmed, and all without so much as batting an eyelash. Looking at the corded muscles in those long arms of his, as they rested – for the moment – at his sides, she knew that he could easily deal her the casual swat that would send her flying. Perhaps even with only one hand, and he wouldn't have to exert even an ounce of strength to do _that_. 

Her mind boggled at the thought of how many centuries of training and careful control he had put into shaping himself into who and what he now was. 

And yet, in spite of his immense, almost unfathomable age, there was not a single scar to mark his body, except for the two that she had seen long before then. The lines of his figure were long, sleek, and powerful: with a cat-like elegance and grace, holding the vast strength that was in the muscles beneath his skin in check.

In the face of such strength, she balked.

But he stepped forward, smoothly closing the gap between them, refusing to let her go any further. Elowyn did not flinch again as his fingertips brushed onto her cheeks, cupping around her face and drawing her head up, so that she looked into his face, into his eyes. Jaedin regarded her with his speculative, calm air, and seemed to be trying to read her.

"I'm _horrid_," he said, in response to her words, completing her unfinished sentence for her. 

He moved his left hand, sweeping one of her curls over her shoulder with a nonchalant flippancy that seemed in complete consistency with his mien, but utterly in contrast to his words. Then he smirked, again. 

"I know. You told me…"

He stepped even closer, and she could sense his thought.

_This again…he simply refuses to give up._

As his fingers moved to lightly caress her cheek, she suddenly reached out and put her hands on his – the one that was resting on her cheek, the other that had somehow become draped about her hips, drawing her towards him, inexorably. Now, she finally looked up at him, tearing her eyes from the pock-marked surface of the sand beneath their feet. She met his gaze with hers, and gave a tiny shake of her head.

"I've told you other things before as well, Dark One," she said, softly and lowly: her quiet voice full of meaning. "When will you begin to listen to me?"

As she spoke, Jaedin breathed in abruptly, and she felt his frame stiffen – becoming rigid and unbending, and cold, like a statue – as he removed his gaze from hers and took a step back, his hands dropping down to his sides again. She realized, as a blade of insidious fear ran through her, that she had upset him with her refusal of his love, of his proposal: perhaps even made him angry. Upon a second, furtive glance at him, however, she decided that this latter was _not_ the case. 

Angry was, she thought, too strong a word for it. 

Disappointed, then. 

But what _had_ he expected – for her to fall into his arms, allowing herself to forget everything, even the fact that he was still the Dark Lord, and she was still a princess of the White Realm? She trusted his word, and would not have stood by and watched him suffer, while it was in her power to heal him…but love between them, as long as the insurmountable barrier of the light against the darkness existed, could never be. No matter what her heart – longing for a love that would last for all of time, and a romance that would sweep her away to forever – told her, the love of a Dark Lord and a Princess was forbidden, and doomed to never live.

And so she drew away from him.

Jaedin, she noticed, had gone a few shades paler, and she quickly took note of the still-fading marks of the veins around his face, on his scalp, that had once been flush with the poison of silver. He was staring at her, in glowering silence.

She put out a hand towards him, bringing it into within less than an inch of his chest, and then stopped.

"Exert yourself overly much," she told him, gently, "And you will cause yourself injury – again."

She saw the muscles in his arm tense a bit, and knew that her words carried more than their intended portent to him. _You have inhibitions,_ they told him,_ and you will never surmount them. You cannot forget them; you cannot lose them. Put them out of your mind for even a moment, and you will fall, again. Once again, you will fail. Even now, you are slipping. You: who have known the ages of the world._

However, even more deeply painful than that, she sensed, was the most starkly unkind and cold message of all…and at the thought of it, she wanted to turn away and weep. But he was not finished yet; he would not let her go that easily. He caught onto her wrist as she tried to move away, to run from him. His gray eyes pierced into hers, and she saw the expression in them: the closest that any part of him would come to pleading. She glimpsed his longing – the elemental desire of all creatures, to be loved and love in return – within those silvery depths.

"Even the greatest injury is sweet when I with you, Elowyn," he told her: his normally vibrant, captivating, and resonant voice dropped to a soft, almost breathless whisper. "Perhaps this is because you _are_ my sweetest injury. When I lie awake at night and let my memories pass me by, I know that my heart beats only for _you_."

And in her own mind, Elowyn knew at that very moment, that her heart belonged to him, and no one else. Whether or not she ever revealed this to anyone in the life that she now lived was immaterial. 

She knew the truth, but _had_ to hide it.

"No." she whispered. She removed her hand from his, withdrawing it from him as she took a step away, her eyes never leaving the depths of his. "I won't let you hurt yourself," she told him. "I won't let you hurt _us_."

'_Us_' – she had said '_us_'. She had started out with speaking only of him, and then reverted to the plurality of the two of them. Small as this little slip on her part had been – or had it been deliberate? He couldn't tell, even by looking closely at her…but it gave him a flutter of hope. She had said no, but then, he had heard that word before.

Sometimes, no didn't always remain the same, in the end.

He nodded, slowly and silently accepting her words, and bowed slightly to her, like a knight acknowledging the command of his lady. 

"As you wish."

_Merron nenein,_ his mind whispered.

It was growing later and later in the morning, heading towards the hour of noon, and so now he turned halfway and held out a hand to her. Elowyn laid her fingertips lightly in the palm of it, and he escorted her, without another word, back to the camp. 

When they arrived, Robbie, Brendan, and Sala were all seated in the designated dining room inside of the tent. They looked up as Jaedin raised the tent flap door and stood aside to let Elowyn enter, following into the space behind her. 

After a moment of silence, Elowyn announced that, if Jaedin's wounds remained healed enough for him to ride again, they would depart from that area the next morning, and continue on their quest. Then, they all parted ways – Brendan went into the woods again, to search out some herb that grew there, with which he had made the salve they had applied to the vampyre's many injuries, and Robbie accompanied him to gather up more firewood, and attend to the horses. Sala returned to the room she shared with Elowyn, leaving her cousin and their guide alone together, once more. 

After everything that had happened before, it felt odd.

Elowyn ran her gaze over the table, brushing her fingertips along its edge, as she eyed the many gold-embellished platters, goblets, utensils, and other eating items. 

A banquet of seeming epic proportions laid out on the table, yet another gift from the incredible, magic-ridden tent. She had long ago decided that the Pings and the Hobknobs, even though they did not seem to have any inherent, natural powers of magic and enchantment of their own, certainly were not without experience with such things. 

Finally, she turned to Jaedin.

"I'm supposing that you're going to be hungry now; at least, I know_ I_ am. And it seems that we've been left to dine with one another."

His lips curled a bit at their sides, and he acknowledged her words with a fluttering, courtly flourish of one long, well-toned hand.

"The Princess Elowyn must do as she wishes."

"Aye; so she must," Elowyn murmured, her gaze riveted on the table before her, but she heard and understood his words all too well. She took up a large plate in one hand and began to move down the length of the table, carefully making a selection large enough for both of them to eat. When at last she had finished, she hefted the by now rather heavy platter in both hands, and nodded to him.

"Where to now?" she inquired, and he held the gauzy fabric door aside for her again, allowing her to step outside into the bright, midmorning air again. 

She looked back, over her shoulder, just in time to see him hold up a hand to his head: his thumb and longer fingers going to press briefly against his forehead, at the sudden blaze of light, and a sickening feeling stabbed through her stomach. 

Of course he wouldn't behave as if he were still in pain, not quite recovered from his illness; what male being _would_?

Inwardly cursing herself for ever having let his outward air deceive her, she rounded on him and, without another word, took him by the front of his shirt – holding a rather large chunk of the flimsy white silk in her clenched fingers – and dragged him off behind her. 

Jaedin, if he had wanted to, could have resisted; but, as it was, he didn't. Utterly furious, both with him and with herself, Elowyn propelled them both towards his quarters, stepped inside, and set the tray down on the table that stood beside the cot. Jaedin stood beside the door, watching her with his arms folded behind his back, one eyebrow cocked. She whirled on him, incensed beyond words.

"You vampyre blackguard," she snapped off at him, "Where do you think you came upon the right to do something like that to me? Do you possibly _not_ know how many hours I spent at your bedside, hoping and praying that you would come out of your fever? Can you possibly _not_ guess? And now I find you up and out of bed, specifically against anything I might have told you – and you _knew_ it – and even against common sense itself…and you're not even fully well yet! How _dare_ you—"

Then suddenly he was looming up in front of her, catching her wildly gesticulating hands in his own, and his face was glaring down into hers. 

Again, she had made the mistake of flouting his authority over his own actions. Never, in millennia, had anyone told him how to behave, what to do and what not to do, and now she, the child of his greatest enemies, had taken to ordering him around? Even his attraction to her would not let this go unanswered; his affection did not run that deep. 

The thought of fighting back, trying to free herself, to make him release her, crossed her mind – but she knew better. When he held her, it was because he wanted to, and nothing short of a disaster itself could make him take his hands off of what he wanted.

"How dare I _what_, Princess? Please, _do_ tell me! Tell me that I am a base, corrupt, and depraved monster, for not having the self-restraint to force myself into distancing myself from my emotions – spit those words back in my face, as you say that you will do anything you can to save my life, and yet refuse to let me show my own feelings! Blame me for reacting to your coldness to me in this one way: for hiding my weaknesses from you when I _know_ that I may _never_ have your sympathy, or your care. The very thought of you was all that kept me alive, in that accursed city, as they tormented every atom of my being and sought to draw the life from me. And now you tell me that I cannot even show you my gratitude."

He released her, abruptly, and she felt very, very weak in the knees – weak and trembling all over, in fact – and sank down to sit on the edge of the unmade cot, fingers absentmindedly rubbing the places on her wrists where he had held her. Jaedin, meanwhile, paced around the room; she could feel the waves of frustration and anger radiating off of him, filling the air. 

At last, he turned to her, and she saw that his eyes were smoldering with an only barely-constrained depth of emotion.

"Elowyn, Elowyn…" he said, breathing the words in a silky, deadly soft tone of voice. "I promised you that I would not do anything to harm you; I have given you my very life, it would seem, and have gone through no one knows what shadows to find my way to your side. I have sworn to help you, and do as you command. I have tried to tell you of what lies within my soul, but you never cease to push me away. I cannot bear it much longer, Elowyn; it is slowly killing me."

She felt her eyes widen, as she stared at him.

"I? I am killing you? How…"

He made a face that might have almost been one of rueful, self-deprecating grief: his mouth quirked to one side, and his eyebrows softened from their original hard angle.

"From the inside out, it would seem," he told her. "If it is impossible for you to believe that a Dark Lord can love, that is must likewise be impossible for the truth to resound in your mind that a Dark Lord _can_ also die, for love of another." 

Then he turned away from her, to look out through the sheer, breeze-stirred doorway, into the impenetrable distance. She heard him murmur faintly to himself, "He can die from that…among many other things."

"Jaedin, I cannot give you an answer."

Now he whirled around again; looked at her.

She averted her eyes, her fingers moving to trace a pattern on the coverlet that she sat upon, eyelashes flickering over the jade-green shimmer of her gaze. She spoke her next words, thoughtfully and softly.

"But I _can_ give you my word – the word of a Princess of the faeries – that one day, whether that day is soon or very, very far off, I will. Until then…you _must not_ ask me." 

She looked back up at him again, as he came to stand beside the cot, gazing down on her as his hand moved to stroke the back of hers. Butterflies beat their wings in her stomach. 

"Until then…Jaedin, please try to stay alive. We need you, and I don't know what I'd do if you were to leave us…"

He went to sit down on the far end of the cot, leaving a good two feet in between them, and pensively poured himself a glass of wine from the bejeweled decanter. Elowyn belatedly noticed that, coiled around the bottle itself, was a golden dragon: its wings folded, graceful and taut, against its sides, with its gleaming talons and eyes of sapphires sparkling like dewdrops when the sunlight glanced upon them. 

The wine itself was a deep red hue, almost the same colour of her dress, and when she saw him take a drink of it, she thought that it looked very much like blood.

And she suppressed a shudder.

Jaedin observed her, not saying anything, and replaced the wine glass on the table, slowly and deliberately picking up a thick-skinned grape, to roll it between his fingertips before he increased their pressure, popping the skin and sitting forward. 

"Open your mouth."

She obeyed, and then they ate. They talked no further of love, nor his illness, although Elowyn had made a mental note to herself to reassess his healing wounds.

But only much later.

* * *

"What happened to you?"

Silence.

"I was born to a family of vampyres – Sytherrian vampyres. I had…six older brothers, three older sisters, and a younger brother and sister: twins. Together with our mother and father, we lived in the companionship of our particular clan, as vampyres as wont to do – grandparents were there with us, and aunts, and uncles, and cousins, extended relatives…you understand."  
A nod.

"Then…one day, the Ebony Queen's forces attacked, without warning. The carnage and destruction they brought along with them spread like a wildfire – pitiless and unstoppable. They left no one alive."

Pause.

"No one, that is, but a three-year-old boy."

"You."

"It hardly leaves room for imagination, does it? Yes, that child – the sole survivor of a horrific bloodbath – was I, and the Queen came, and took me away from that place. After that day, she raised me as she might have raised her own son. She left me have full and complete, utterly unrestrained run of her palace, until I was nine years of age. Then she sent me to her war mines."

A long, long silence; memory.

"I spent the next eight years of my life in those terrible, blood-stained depths; and in them, I learned to deaden myself to pain, to emotion, to the sight, the sound, the feel of suffering. All the while, my bitter rage and resentment towards the one who had sent me there, into that dread darkness, continued to fester and grow, writhing within me like some vile, poisonous thing – eating me from the inside out."

Harsh and cynical laughter.

"It was there, if you can believe it, that I made most of my 'friends' – the beings who would one day become the members of my army, my officers and underlings. I learned well how to manipulate and cow, threaten and coerce, to get what I wanted, when I wanted it, however I had to do so. Otherwise…how could a mere adolescent of a vampyre have survived among such shadows? There were creatures there, Elowyn – _things_ – that I will simply will not speak to you of…"

Again, a long, long silence.

"But then she brought you back…didn't she? She had to have done it."

"Once again, Princess, your intuition wins you another round in our game. And now it is my turn. Yes – Zaschaea, Queen of the Black City, on the day that I turned seventeen, brought me back to her palace. There, she told me that the time had come for me to take my place in the world. The moment after that is still nothing but a blur to me – blanked out by the scarlet haze of fury. In all those long, terrible years, she'd made no secret to me of my origins; every day, I had had the knowledge of who and what I was thrown and smashed into my face, until it became a caustic, biting degradation of myself – a pressure on my chest, like a booted heel. I could not remove it, and they would not let me forget."

Breeze blowing; wordless thought.

"I must have tried to attack her, then, for the thing I remember next is being on my hands and knees in the throne room, spear points and crossbows bristling in a hedge around me. That day, I received many scars…"

Scars; upon that handsome, proud face – a sense of pity, a desire to reach out and comfort, a whisper – "Jaedin…"

Refusal.

"No…no. I've not done yet."

Gathering of more words.

"She told me that from that day forth, my past would be as a blank to me – a void where mere darkness remained. I _would_, however, retain the knowledge, the memories and abilities that I had received in the war mines."

A thought, within his own mind – _Selfish and tyrannical by age three; bitter, withdrawn, and cold by age eleven; contemptuous, unfeeling, and utterly without relent or mercy by age seventeen. We are so different…_

"This having been said, she wiped out my memory – injured me so that I lay in a deeply unconscious state for almost a month afterwards – and then, when I awakened, she fed me her lie. The White Realm had murdered my family, taken away all I held dear, she told me; 'Now, go: seek your vengeance. I will help you, in return for one small thing – truly, it is an almost trifling price to pay…' "

"Your service to her."

"She would take nothing less. So I agreed to become her instrument of terror, her black knight – the Dark Lord, in short. And over the next thousand years, I thrust myself zealously into achieving revenge for my slain loved ones – I cut a swath of death, ruin, and chaos throughout whatever region she commanded me to take, and all in the name of my own personal conception of justice."

A shake of the head.

"I led…how many was it? Five hundred, six hundred? Or was it more towards a thousand battles – campaigns, strikes, forays, and many, many more – against the White Realm, as the Dark Lord. I doubt that even _one_ of your peers who has seen more than the last five hundred thousand years in this world did not know of me. I was, I think, a household name in those days. Then…"

Silence again.

"Then what?"

"A downfall, Princess, caused by _pride_. I went in battle against the White Realm, to the very gates of Avalennon itself, thinking that now – at last – I would end my heart's suffering, close the gaping wound in my soul that I would reveal to _no one_. No one could stop me, I believed. And I fell."

"It wasn't the end, though, Jaedin."

A skeptical glance in her direction, complete with the cynical lifted eyebrow.

"No? Actually…"

A pause for reconsideration.

"Actually…I believe that you are right, Princess. It _wasn't_ the end."

_Far from it._

* * *

"Why did you want me?"

A stare, a gaze, deep into her beautiful jade-green eyes.

"To be my queen – why _else_? I wanted you to take your place at the throne beside me, and reign as the lady of Sytherria, the mistress of _Dranthiris-Ankhar_."

_And from the implications of that…_

"An exalted position indeed…"

"I _still_ desire that, Elowyn. If you would only have consented, that night, to take my hand and name yourself as mine…I would have been happy. I would have shown you that even a dark lord could love. I would have shown you _our_ dreams."

"Why? Why would you?"

Again, the cocked eyebrow, the patronizing and arrogant manner.

"Namely? You are beautiful, Elowyn. All beings capable of thought gravitate towards loveliness, in whatever form, and – to some small degree – light; they cannot help it, and both of these, you have. You are beautiful, and you are born of the Light."

"And beyond that?"

"Beyond that? What else served to stay my hand, to keep your from being destroyed – even when it became clear to me that I must disobey the commands I had been given? I have long been constrained by a class of nobility that grovels at my feet, acquiescing to my slightest whim, in hopes of currying favor – a class of nobility that will, also, turn around and tear into itself, into its various members: each of whom have nothing better to do than eternal jockey and scrabble for a better position. They are altogether base and unworthy. You – along with your friends – however, give me a challenge. You defy me, you will not grovel before me; you are _different_."

"I interest you."

"Is it so hard for the princess to believe? Elowyn."

Their gazes met, at last.

"You and I are connected, by a bond that no one and nothing can break. I fear to speak of such things to you, but feel that I must – rail against the bars of the cage that _does_ indeed exist around you, my pretty songbird of the morning, and you will rend your wings to pieces, and all before your master has ever come to release you, and hold you in the palm of his hand. It is only to your downfall."

"If I were to love you, when we live in such a world, _that_ would be to my downfall."

She said these words, but in his mind, he heard them differently. In his mind, he heard her say to him—

_I will not let myself love you. I will not let you touch me. In the end, I will always leave you. It shall ever be so._

And she left him.

Silently, he watched her go, as his anger grew within him. He cursed the Fates that had so callously placed him and the one whom he loved – the only woman he would ever love, he was now certain – on the opposite sides of the greatest chasm imaginable, on the opposite sides of light and dark. No longer did he serve the Ebony Queen, but now he was a Dark Lord in his own right. And where the light was, the darkness could not also be. Yet his will remained determined…

_Elowyn! Do not turn your back on me! You cannot so negligently brush aside the truth – when it comes to find you, what will you do to shield yourself from its heedless, bruising force? Would you not rather have the one who loves you to stand behind you, and guard you with his arms?_

Not if the one of whom he spoke was himself, he knew.

_But I _am_ that one! I am bound to her by more than mere desire – we share a fate, in a destiny long foreseen by members of this world! _

_She is my light._

I_ am _her_ darkness._

* * *

The next morning dawned clear and heartless: a bright blue sky devoid of any clouds whatsoever, as the sun shone without relent above the earth. Elowyn awakened and lay still in bed for a long time, staring at the cloth ceiling of the tent, not entirely certain that she wanted to leave her room. Across the space from her, on the other cot, Sala stirred in her sleep and then sat up, moving with the air of one who is a reluctant waker, who knows that it is necessary to rise and begin her day, and resents it.

No words were exchanged between them as they found the clothing they would wear that day and began to dress: lacing ties, fastening buttons, pulling on boots, readjusting sleeves, and brushing hair. Sala immediately left the room as soon as she was finished, while Elowyn hung back. Her sense of dread had only grown with each moment that she had remained there, delaying her departure. 

She knew that just beyond those glimmering, almost entirely transparent curtain-like hangings lay the morning, and the day ahead of her. She knew that he was out there, and right at that second, the thought of meeting him filled her with apprehension and recoiling fear. Her sleep had been filled with disturbing visions the night before, and she had rested uneasily.

But the quest awaited her – she could not ignore its demands.

_You must finish this, Elowyn._

And so, swallowing her misgivings about going out into the company of her friends when all of these fears and memories remained to haunt her, she set her shoulders straight, lifting her chin to a proud, unafraid and defiant angle, and stood. The sword that she had earned as her own early in her martial arts career was hung on its place at her belt, and, with one hand resting upon its golden hilt, she went out to greet the morning.

Few words were spoken among the group in those early morning hours; her friends acknowledged her presence, and they all set about preparing to leave. He had still not appeared; and she could not tell, exactly, what she felt in her heart about that. True, she feared that meeting, but she also, to some degree, desired it.

That hour slowly slipped by.

She turned, at last, to go in search of their mounts, and, as she did so, was greeted by the sight of the one whom she had learned to know the face of almost better than her own. He stood, black velvet cloak rippling slightly in the cool morning breeze, and was watching her: his silver-tainted eyes aloof and yet prescient of her being there. She halted, her own eyes flaring wide so that her lashes made a dark and vivid contrast against the paleness of her skin. 

There they stood, for a long, silent moment. Simply staring at one another. 

Elowyn distantly sensed that her friends had come up behind her, standing in a sort of V behind her, observing this wordless meeting. Jaedin tilted his head, so that he was looking up at her from under his slightly clouded brows. 

_You know that I will always feel the same for you, Princess of the Faeries, _his voice said in her mind._ I know not what the future holds for us; if I had the power to do so, I would make it so that everything was as I wished it – however, I cannot, and for the moment, I will not try. You have determined not to care for me, have you? Do not battle against me – I know how to fight, and I will do it, if I must._

_Thus it seems our path is meant to be, my Dark One._

_'_My_ Dark One'? So – perhaps your heart is _not_ utterly alien to me – I may yet have hope. But you shake your head; you do not know. Well, then: I shall wait, until a time comes that is better for me to seek to woo you. Our discussion is not over yet, Princess; there will be many after it. I have tried to make you see sense – _my_ sense – long and hard now, but I see that I must yet play the hunter._

_Whilst I remain your prey. So it shall be._

And she acknowledged him, in reality, with a graceful version of the most formal faery curtsey: a slight spread of her whispering silken skirts, as she let her feet assume a dancer's position, one foot angled behind the other. She inclined her head to him, her eyes sending him a challenge to respond, shooting sparks of jade.

"We await upon your readiness to ride forth, Guide."

* * *

A/N: So, we're getting a bit uneasy here – and the question must, again, be asked…what exactly is going on between these two? You'll just have to read the next chapter to find out. Follow me further into the woods: we're gaining on Red and the Wolf…

And as we go – Notes.

**Grayfalcon: **So, a nice long chapter complete with a dash of playfulness, some long-delayed romance, and – YES – the revelation of Jaedin's past. I'm not doing so badly here, am I… ^_~ And yes, the messenger line was somewhat derived from _Mulan_, although I tried to change it enough to avoid plagiarism. Ick. Thank _you_ for being a truly marvelous reviewer! 

**Mystery Guest:** I am honoured that you've elected to continue on with the series – it's so great to have reviewers who stick around. ^_^ I promise, also, that the action will not let up from here on out…which may or may not be the best way to give myself a severe migraine, but we shall see. The feedback I've gotten on Jaedin and Elowyn's relationship is great – thank you so very much for commenting on it, and believe me, I do try my best to avoid "corniness". *shudders* As for getting published…well, I'm working on it. Will explain further on.

**Rosethorn:** Well I'm glad Gavin's still in the closet. Jay and Shinzon, evil little boys, have been locked in my room for the past…well, since my last update, because of their little prank they pulled on me. I think they're now planning on challenging all the other villains in the world/galaxy/history to a Grand Duel…arrrrgh. *Kates thunks head on keyboard* Hmmm…Rosethorn likes angst…I shall do my best to keep it coming. ^_~

**DarkSlytherinAngel:** _The Pet Psychic Lady?_ *throws herself in Shinzon's arms, shaking violently; he looks slightly bemused* ACK! She scares me. No, with the 'dahling' thing, I was definitely going for the more Liz Taylor or even Audrey Hepburn…creepy lady who talks to pets…now my twitch is going at it again. Anywho… ^_^ Well, if I ever get any of my books published and there is an opportunity to make them into movies, I will let you know as soon as I possibly can. After all, I'd do anything I could for my wonderful reviewers… (And as for the italics/bold/underline…I just write out the chapter, save it as a web page – instead of a Word document – and upload it. It normally works that way, although I can't get my centered stuff to center for the life of me…)

**Raal the Sword Master:** Hmm…it _does_ sound like it somehow evens out. Sorry – I don't mean to batter my readers with tons of long and involved updates…ugh. And school _is_ lovely, isn't it. Back to Evyrworld, however…*grins* There may be some lines drawn between Elowyn and the Star-Maiden – where those will lead, I can't say, but I will tell you that you're on the right track. Egads! They're getting close to figuring me out! Must elude, must confuse! As for Jaedin…the war between him and her has come to a bit of a truce, but one can never tell how long it will last. He likes to keep people on their toes: even when he's been virtually incapacitated, and nearly mummified…but yes, as you said, at least his flesh isn't decaying. (And having Elowyn around 'to make him all better' isn't exactly a cup of tea he won't enjoy…)

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! I can't express my gratefulness for your comments, and the fact that you're all reading my story. It makes it all worthwhile – more than worthwhile. ^_^ And now on to the next chapter… 


	30. Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven –

Trust or Betrayal: You Must Choose

Neither of the two leaders of their party were speaking very much – either to one another, or to anyone else.  In fact, it seemed almost as if they were avoiding even the slightest eye contact with one another.  Jaedin wore a look unlike his perpetual observant, cool, and extremely cocky expression upon his face, and it made him appear to be even more forbidding and ascetic of aspect than ever before.  Elowyn rode at his side, but she did not look at him, and her pretty young face was drawn with lines of concern.

And to think that they had all assumed that the Princess and the Dark Lord had come to some sort of peace-agreement between themselves.

Obviously, they had been quite mistaken.

This realization cast a pall over the remaining members of the little group, and they, after a while of stiff, awkward attempts at conversation, rode along in complete, dour silence.  They had gone off-course in their escape from the Silver City, Jaedin had told them, pointing out their new position on a map that he somehow procured, by art of his own powers.  Now, in order to regain lost time and avoid run-ins with other potential aggressors, he said, they would have to turn off of their original course—

And enter the fringes of Sytherria.

The faeries' consternation at this was understandable – few had entered that desert realm within the last several millennia and then emerged to tell happy tales about it.  

It was, as Elowyn had seen that seeming lifetime before, when she had been the Dark Lord's captive, a truly desolate and arid land, which held only a beauty that dragons and its other natural inhabitants could comprehend.  One day under the blinding, white-hot sun, in those deserts, they had been told – many a time – and they would find themselves wondering if they would ever see a green-leafed tree ever again.

But into Sytherria they had to, and did, go.

The horses seemed to become more open to the idea of long gallops then, which at first disconcerted their riders; then, Jaedin told them that the animals were not unknown to sense a lack of water and food before entering such a realm, and that they also, in all likeliness, could sense the presence of large predators nearby.  Dragons were among the fiercer inhabitants of the Dark Lord's realm, but there were also other predators there that could just as easily frighten a horse.  

At any rate – whatever the true reason behind this was – they were all soon flying along the amber-tinted dunes, scaling hills and then galloping down them, passing by ravines, under stone arches sculpted by the hands of the very elements themselves, and around pits of lava and tar that filled the air for a mile around with the stench of sulfur and flame.  

Little did they suspect that what they would at first take to be a great treachery awaited them, near the end of that day…

*                       *                       *

The sun, which seemed even more enormous, even more like a colossal burning ember fallen from the heavens, began to drift into the western horizon, and stained the desert with the hues of chaos and blood.  Robbie reined his mount in to a halt and called out to the black-cloaked figure who rode up ahead of him: the young prince's voice was hoarse and unsteady, so long had he gone without speaking and, even worse, water.

"Do you mean for us to ride through the night in this place?  What of the creatures that you have told us dwell within these hills?"

Jaedin slowly reacted to this sally: first, his head turned beneath its cloak, swiveling with infinite, liquid lassitude until they could call catch a glimpse of the dying sun's light on his eyes.  Then, he finally turned the upper half of his body, so that he faced three-quarters of the way towards his companions, who remained atop their mounts behind him.  He relaxed his grip on the reins, idly toying with the leather straps as he replied to Robbie's question, seeming bored.

"We must move on.  I am compelled to answer the questions of no man."

A great silence moved in to fill the void after he uttered those somewhat surprising words – oddly enough, they had been under the impression that his outright hostilities towards his forced guidance of their quest had come to an end.  Robbie looked taken aback for a moment, but for only just that long; his expression of surprise and slight hurt very quickly and easily altered to one of narrow-eyed resentment.

"So – when it happens to be that the _vampyre_ cannot stand the light of the sun, we are all expected to simply accept that fact, and whatever drawbacks that come alongside it…but when the tables are turned, and it is his companions who do not wish to endure the long darkness of a fell land, we must also endure his arrogance?" he hissed.

Jaedin's reaction to this was unseen beneath his overshadowing hood.

"I would mind the words you speak, young prince…" he said, in a very soft, very gentle, and unmistakably warning tone that made the fine hairs on the back of Elowyn's neck stand straight up, as if she had been struck by a bolt of lightning.

_She had heard him speak in such a way before…!_

Her hand shot straight to her sword; she yanked on the hilt of the weapon, heard the rasp of metal sliding against leather as she attempted to rally her thoughts together, to think of what she could possibly do; was there enough time—

All at once, however, she knew that any of her efforts would be for naught.  It happened in the blink of an eye – one moment, they were together, there, with on their mounts, in the middle of the rapidly darkening desert, and the next, scores of black-garbed figures were materializing from all around them, converging on their dismayed party.  One of those figures launched itself at Robbie, grabbing on – hard – to the dark-haired prince's leg.  

Robbie was unprepared for the assault and was dragged out of the saddle; once on the ground, however, he fought like a wild cat, twisting and striking out against his opponent.  To her left, Brendan clashed swords with the figure who seemed to be the leader of the party, who wore a sash of deep crimson about his waist and carried a long, truly deadly-looking scimitar: double-edged and lethally wielded.  Sala was employing all her Amazon skills at handling her horse, and had already attracted the attention of more than five of their enemies, who alternately ran at her and then dodged the sharp, clipping hooves of her steed as she caused it to rear up in the air.  

All this she saw in a split second: her friends battling against an army that seemed to have sprung up out of the sand – for then, in the next second, an arm, familiar and terrifying in its powerfulness, came around her from behind, reaching through the space between her arm and her side, the fingers of its gloved hand moving to clamp onto her neck.

An utterly cowing, furiously resonant voice rang through the tumult, in a bellow that bespoke of the uncontested authority that its owner held over those he commanded, and the battle ground to a screeching, horrible halt.  

"_Aran tahkvor_!  I command you – do _not_ slay them!"

Then, suddenly, the arm that was around her tightened, until it almost cut off her breathing, and completely dispelled any thought that she might have had of struggling from her mind.  She felt herself pulled backwards, almost yanked out of Orpheus' saddle, and then her backbone smacked up against someone's very hard and very merciless chest.  

Gloved fingers moved to grip her chin, holding her head in place as the one who held her bent his own head, leaning around so that his lips were right next to her ear.  She stiffened as waves of realization, horror, and betrayal washed over her.

"Now – did I not promise you, Princess, that I would await a better time for us to finish our discussion?  And it appears that as of this very moment, until whenever I choose to end it, we shall have as much time to talk as I please.  Tell your friends to relinquish their weapons, and I won't let them be hurt."

Elowyn fought against his touch, even though she knew that it would be futile.  The arms that held her were simply too strong – and whatever she did, she knew that she would never be able to evade them for long.  So, instead, she whispered hoarsely to him, as her vision swam with scalding tears, "You liar.  You utter _blackguard_."

Her captor gave what a soft laugh, and did not release her.

"Elowyn, Elowyn…" he sighed, with mocking good-nature in his tone: managing to be patronizing, arrogant, and yet amused all at the same time, "You _really_ must learn that calling me names is hardly the way to anger me.  Now," and here his voice become cold and hard, like a sharp-faceted diamond, and relentless, "Tell them to give up their weapons, or I shall be forced to do something that I know both of us will rather regret later.  You see how easy it would be for me…"

And he made an airy indication with his gauntleted hand, in the general direction of her friends, who stood with sword and spear points at their throats.  They looked back at her, their eyes dark and pleading – _No, don't listen to him; no, don't do it; don't do as he says, Elowyn, not for us; no, don't do it._

But she was helpless.

_No – I won't be the cause for your deaths or torment!_

The three faeries, seeing her, became as people who walked in a nightmare: their faces went blank, and they, without looking away from her and without words, dropped their weapons upon the sand.  Elowyn felt her pent-up emotions – loneliness, fear, anger, and, most of all, grief – well up within her, until they became too painful for her to bear, like the point of an invisible arrow that had become lodged in her shoulder, and she let the floodgates burst open.  She bowed her head, trying vainly to cover her face with her hands, and began to sob.  

There was nothing else that she could do.

But her captor was even more heartless than she had ever yet imagined.  Before she could stop him, he had taken her hands away from her face, locking them both within one of his own hands, and was swinging her with his free arm off of Orpheus' back, and onto that of his mount.  She heard Robbie cry out in infuriated protest as he saw her treatment; glimpsed him as he broke away from his guards, and tried to run towards her; froze in horror as one of them came up from behind and hit him – hard – across the back of the head, with the flat of his weapon's blade.  He slumped lifelessly to the sand, eyes slipping closed.

"Jaedin, you _demon-spawn_!" Sala's incensed voice shrieked, bouncing off of the sandstone walls of the canyon that surrounded them, but Elowyn's holder – arms securely closed around her – merely laughed, coldly and harshly.

"_Hardly_!" he called back, in a callous, triumphant taunt. "I am nothing but a Dark Lord, and the villain of your so-called faery tale; it should be obvious to you now, Lady Sala, that I _cannot_ behave otherwise."

Then, he turned and spoke to the figures that stood about him.  The Antari, Elowyn remembered, only too late.  His personal elite guard.  

Her mind was going numb.

"Bind them, and place the impetuous one on a litter," Jaedin commanded, without emotion or regard to her in his voice. "Then bring them along.  Captain Dahk-Marr!"

And Elowyn saw the familiar figure of the captain of the guard come riding towards her; he made a bow to Jaedin, saluting him with a dark, inscrutable cast to his features.  He did not even look at Elowyn.

Jaedin's smirk was apparent in his voice alone.

"I see that you received my message in full, despite the difficulties we had in corresponding," he said.  Elowyn felt her mind reel, and her stomach twist within her.  He had been_ planning_ to betray them?  For how long?  She wanted to be sick, right then and there, as she remembered the many hours she had spent conversing with him, only a short time ago – her premonitions had proven true, from all along; he really wasn't to be trusted.  

And now it was too late.  

Bright, whirling spots of light began to appear in the corners of her vision as she thought this over and over again – _too late, too late too late too late…_

Then Jaedin's arms were shifting on her; he was not going to let her fall, was not about to allow her to succumb to the blissful, thoughtless void of unconsciousness.  Oh no, he had something much more sinister in mind, and he wanted her _awake_.  Her head fell back against his supporting shoulder, and she found herself gazing into his cold gray eyes.  He was glaring at her: a light of fiery, indomitable demand in his features.  Her skin had broken out in an icy sweat; her tongue felt as if it were becoming numb, a sour taste filled her mouth, and her fingertips were beginning to tingle, she saw him through a haze.

"Ah, no, Princess," he told her, breathing the words softly and menacingly into her face, his icy breath whisking across her skin. "You mustn't leave me…"

He leaned further down, and suddenly, his fingers were pressed to her forehead.  Her mind exploded, all at once, with a blast of white light and she felt her dizziness – and the urge to faint – go away; she saw, almost too late, that he had brought his head too, too close to hers, and knew instantly what he intended.  

With a shriek, she tore both of her arms out of his grasp and brought them up to bear; the Dark Lord found himself shoved violently away from her, and then his elusive faery quarry was wriggling out of the saddle, almost falling to the ground.  He was almost tempted to laugh, in that split second – she was actually trying to _run_ from him!

His mirth, however, was short-lived, for she was dodging around the Antari who sought to detain her for their master, and dashing towards her friends.  

This, he thought, was simply not acceptable.  

A darkly feral snarl suddenly twisted his lips, and without another second's delay, he had plunged his heels into the sides of his mount, and was bearing down on her.  He reached down and snatched at her, his arm hooking around her waist and lifting her off of the ground, but the princess was even more of a spitfire opponent when she was really angry than he had anticipated.  She had tackled him once—

But absolutely_ nothing_ could have prepared him for what happened next.

_Swap!_

There was a sound of skin colliding with skin, and – if one had the proper ears to listen for it – the noise of tearing flesh.  Then, the Dark Lord instantaneously released the girl he held, reining his mount in hard, and clapped a hand to the side of his face and neck, grating out something in vampyric.  

The Antari knew that tone of voice, and, hardened warriors as they were: souls forged in the very infernos of the worst battles, they trembled inwardly for the faery princess, now that she had enacted such a terrible offense against their master.

Elowyn had been able to gain no more than three steps in her flight when a grip of steel clamped, like the jaws of a vice, down onto her arm, just below her shoulder, with a force that hauled her back so quickly that she felt it might take her arm out of its socket.  The dark figure that stood behind her gave what sounded like an animal snarl and whirled her around, slamming her into the dusty ground.  She hit the sand, landing on her back, and for a moment, she could neither see, nor think, nor breathe.

_Leave me alone; please just leave me alone; let me go, please leave me alone,_ she begged, hysterically, within her mind.

_It is too late for that, Princess,_ his cold, hard voice reminded her.

And she opened her eyes.

Leaning over her, his hands imprisoning both of hers, was the Dark Lord of Sytherria – the greatest evil in her life, and the one person she had given her heart to.

Jaedin stared into her pallid, terrified face, unforgiving.

There were five long, deep lines of pure fire on the right side of his face now, and his neck: beginning almost at the sensitive skin of his shaved scalp, and ending just below his jaw line.  And he did not deal well with _that_ kind of pain.  

As he pulled her to her feet, then swept one arm behind her legs and lifted her off of the ground, into his arms, securely imprisoning her against his chest, he spoke to her: authoritatively, menacingly, with an edge of ice to his tone that would have sliced through a harpy's tough skin – cutting deep into _her_ soul.

"That was a rash decision you made, Elowyn.  Perhaps you ought to rethink your further behavior, before my patience wears thin.  I warn you, I have shown you a considerable deal of kindness thus far in our interactions with one another, but provoke me much further, and I _cannot_ guarantee that my actions will be to your liking."

"Do what you like," she told him, bitterly, as he carried her back towards his horse, and the waiting ranks of the Antari. "You've always meant to make me nothing but your prisoner – your gold-painted queen in her bejeweled cage…so why should it now matter to me?  Should I not simply resign myself to Fate?"

"Fate!"

He laughed, scornfully, still continuing to carry her; they had reached his horse, but Jaedin indicated some command to Rákkhed Dahk-Marr with a slight movement of his head, and instead, they walked on.  Elowyn wondered, blackly, where they were now being conveyed – _Dranthiris-Ankhar_, from what she knew, was far from the fringes of Sytherria.  Perhaps Jaedin had another fortress of choice…

"Princess, I learned long ago that Fate is a very unkind and fickle force – why would you give yourself over to such a power?  No indeed: that would be even worse than handing the control of your existence over to one such as _me_.  And so, it is apparent, to me, that _I_ am your only alternative."

He at last set her down, and she felt jarred by her reconnection with the earth's surface.  She threw her head back and looked at him, defiantly.

"And what does that mean for me, Dark Lord?" she queried at him. "A déjà vu of our previous escapades in your realm here – or something much worse?"

He eyed her, his gaze raking her up and down.

"That, I think, is for us to decide."

Those words did it; she didn't care what he did now, all she wanted to do was slap him.  Her hand shot up from her side, stiffening for action, but he caught her with lightning fast reaction to her movement; his hand clamped down over her wrist, twisting it to the side until she knew that he could have put her in pain if he had wanted to.  Indeed, with the slightest exertion of strength on his part…

His gray eyes stared down into hers, as he sent her a look that would have stopped a behemoth in its tracks.

"I would _not_ do that, if I were you, Princess," he told her, his voice full of silk and deadliness.  As she tried – foolishly – to twist away from him, he tightened his grip on her, and continued, "Now, let's not get our evening off to a bad start, shall we?  I'd hate to ruin our dinner engagement…"

And then Elowyn – and the rest of her friends, including a groggy but conscious Robbie – heard a rumbling, metallic roar of some gigantic object that was slowly coming up on them.  Jaedin turned, pulling Elowyn backwards into his chest so that she moved with him, to look up into the sky.  Above them, hovering a mere hundred feet over the ground, was the most enormous Sytherrian glider-ship ever created: dubbed the _Apocalypse_ by its makers, many thousands of years before, when it had been built for the Dark Lord.  It was his personal warship.

It was truly amazing.  The faeries had seen many unparalleled sights before in their lives, but this rivaled even the wonders that Brendan had seen.  

Resting atop a pair of sharply angled wings that almost resembled those of a falcon – only these of the ship were composed entirely of metal – was the main bulk of the vessel, a vast structure that held surely more than a hundred different rooms.  They could only imagine the far-advanced technology that would allow it to float above the ground in such a manner.

Jaedin now turned a mocking, cruel little smirk on Elowyn.

"And now, Princess…" he said, drawling out the words with cutting coldness, "Escape _that_ – if you _can_."

*                       *                       *

This whole escapade was really beginning to wear on him.  No matter what he _looked_ like, Jaedin was over five hundred thousand years old, and he was beginning to sicken of the ways of the world.  It contained all too many rules, too many limitations, hatreds, prejudices, and not nearly enough blasted hot water…

"_Dhea'Rin_!  _Now_!" he snapped out, giving the former half of the order in vampyric.  

Then, he settled back against the side of the black onyx tub and closed his eyes, listening to the faint thrum of the _Apocalypse_'s titanic engines, deep in the bowels of the enormous vessel.  It was such a relief to finally be able to indulge in some private thought to himself, and the addition of his own personal quarters and a long bath wasn't bad either…

Of course, now he'd made a royal mess of things; irritably, he swept a vial of some sort of scented oil that had been left on the ledge of the tub off of its place, and was rewarded with the sound of shattering black crystal.  He winced.

It couldn't be helped, what he had been forced to do, he tried reasoning with himself.  After all, he hadn't _directly_ broken his promise to her – when it really came down to the quick of things, he hadn't broken his promise at all.  They were still on course.  Regrettably, he had had to allow her nephew to be…taken care of…by his men, but a real scrabble between his forces and the friends of the princess could not have been risked; the Queen would have taken note of that, and then they would all be…

Well, to have said that they would have all been up to their necks in some very, very hot – try _burning_ – oil would have been a gross understatement.

Jaedin shifted position, rolling his shoulders a bit, and tried to work out the kinks in his muscles.  Oh yes, he was undoubtedly feeling his age _now_.  

But…hopefully, by the end of that evening, his existence would have gone from agonizingly stressful to merely convoluted.

He could only hope.

It was with a growl of annoyance that he realized that he wasn't going to be getting any warmer water anytime soon – at least at _this_ point in the evening – and so he reached for the thick, dark red towel that he had left thrown beside the tub previous to entering it.  

This had been an indulgence for him.  

Not having any hair of which to speak on his head, he had no excuse to spend any real amount of time making himself presentable.  He had, in his days as the Dark Lord and commander over the Ebony Queen's forces, considered this a convenience, that he did not have to concern himself with the combing out of matted locks, or with any sort of flora and fauna that had made the decision to take up a comfortable abode in his scalp.  But…still…he knew that having a shaved head made him stand out all the more.  

This thought made him frown, as he drew his dark blue and black robe around himself, replacing the towel that he had wrapped around his waist, as he went back into the incense-tainted air of his bed chamber.  He let his thoughts flow freely as he reached into his towering wardrobe, in search of new raiment.

And the places those thoughts took him…

He had often felt Elowyn's attraction to him, and had wondered at it – that she, the princess of a people famed for their great beauty and grace, had found something that intrigued her in his features.  There was that blasted scar on his lip: a present from his first bout in the fencing grounds with the Queen's most favored Skullex lieutenant, Golthaur; for which he had repaid the skeleton-faced, yellow-eyed general blow-for-blow, resulting in marks that would last them both for a lifetime, and possibly beyond.  

Then there was his regrettably, to him, prominent nose – it had been broken at least, what?  Once?  Twice?  Whatever the number, he knew that it wasn't exactly the paragon of male beauty.  His family's given bone-structure had taken care of _that_ for him.

He had never considered himself exceptionally attractive – females seemed to fall for him by the scores, but he hadn't ever given that much heed, before this time.  It had seemed that they were all more interested in the others aspects of him: his power, his charisma, the satisfaction that they would receive upon breaking through his icy, contemptuous, and arrogant exterior mien to possess the heart that lay beating with him.  It certainly wasn't because they desired true love of him – nor did _he_ desire such a thing of _them_.  

And now, to his chagrin, it appeared that he was verging on the disaster of losing, for all of time, the one woman whom he really wished to give his love to.  

If he could but convince Elowyn of Avalennon to see him as a person, as her potential lover and not her opposite: the darkness that stood against her and the light…then would not simply _everything_ be as he wished it?  He had told himself, again and again, not to think so, and yet the thought remained.  What if he couldn't convince her, win her over?  

What if he _couldn't_ make her love him?

The frown that had creased the space between the Dark Lord's curving eyebrows now deepened, and his eyes took on the look of an approaching thunderstorm.  'Ware now, to the one who approached him as a foe.  

Putting those thoughts out of his mind – knowing that he would have to deal with them, in full, soon enough – he selected his attire and dressed for the evening's events.

_Curses, I have much explaining to do…_

*                       *                       *

When Elowyn, Robbie, Sala, and Brendan had been transported – blindfolded, every one of them – onto the waiting glider-ship, they had fully expected to be met with none other than the Ebony Queen herself.  They had, they all assumed, fallen neatly into the Dark Lord's cunning trap, and now their quest was over.  They'd been defeated.

Imaginable, then, was their surprise when they found themselves ushered through the hallways of the vessel, through numerous doorways, and at last had their blindfolds removed.  Each stared about himself and herself in wonder.

They stood in what appeared to be a rounded chamber, which was decorated all in stark black and white.  An immense ruby- and black diamond-hung chandelier loomed above their heads, and doors to four chambers were before them.  Their escorts – the grim and forebodingly silent Antari – bowed respectfully and left them with the assurances that soon, all would be revealed, and that they were to make full use of the rooms within.  

It was then, and only then, that they all noticed that each door had the first letter of their individual names inscribed in the frame above the door itself.  They were now quite alone; the Antari had disappeared, leaving them to do the further bidding of their master.

Well, the faeries were in a quandary now – Jaedin had just seemingly betrayed them: had them attacked by his elite guard, taken captive, and brought on board his warship.  However, none of them had been directly harmed, aside from Robbie, who only had a nasty bump on the back of his head as a result of springing to Elowyn's defense, and a smarting headache.  And, as of yet, Jaedin had given no outright indication that they were to be mistreated in any way.

There was only one thing to do, it seemed.

And so they all entered the first room – the room that resided behind the door with the letter 'R' on it.  

The chamber that they now saw before them was a finely made-up bedchamber, complete with a lavish sitting area, washroom accommodations, and a spectacular view of the Sytherrian desert – at night – as the glider ship zoomed over it.  Everything was decorated in bold, regal colours of red, black and gold.

The room that connected to it, which bore the letter 'B' on its door, was unquestionably Brendan-themed – it greatly resembled a large study, with rows and rows of all the most famous and celebrated literature, globes that showed Evyrworld's girth as a whole, a writing desk, and a wing-back chair.  The canopy bed was not nearly as large as the one in Robbie's room, fitting in perfectly, nevertheless, with the understated, intellectual grandeur of the room and its stately dark blue, evergreen, topaz, and wine-red tones.

They walked across the black-and-white room, which was the antechamber to their quartet of suites, they saw, and entered the room marked with an 'E' on the door.  Elowyn froze as soon as she had looked into it, her eyes the only parts of her to move.  

Jaedin, it appeared, knew her frighteningly well.

Everything had been made to look as if it were a forest – the walls had been expertly painted with a mural of a thick, verdant wood, and the carpet: soft and springy beneath her feet, was of the exact same shade as real blades of grass.  There were even tiny white flowers scattered here and there within it, which gave off a subtle fragrance of their sweet, musky perfume into the air.  The ceiling was vaulted and high, and even as they looked at it, it seemed to stir like branches at the touch of the wind.  The bed was hung with curtains that greatly resembled the fall of curtains of ivy, and underneath the evergreen coverlet of satin peeked smooth white sheets.

If the Dark Lord was trying to indicate something with the level of beauty, comfort, and finery of their rooms, he was beginning to succeed.

As they left Elowyn's room and passed through the antechamber once more to enter the last chamber – that belonging to Sala – the faeries were unaware of the fact that they were being observed.  The seemingly opaque, pearl-toned dome of the ceiling there was really a glass bubble that allowed whomever stood in the level above it on the ship to see down into the room.  As of the moment, Jaedin and Rákkhed Dahk-Marr stood at the iron frame that separated the rest of the room from the glass, looking on.  

Jaedin's eyes flickered, with an almost incandescent gray light, as he took note of Elowyn's figure, walking across the floor beneath him.

"Look at her, Rákkhed," he murmured to the tanned, dark-haired and dark-eyed, muscular Antari who stood beside him, also observing the people below. "Look at her.  Is she not the most beautiful creature that your eyes have ever beheld?  She is…she is like a _goddess_, among so many mortals."

Then he turned away from the view below, as they walked into Sala's room.  There, he knew, they would find a majestic apartment of rich violet hues, accented with mother-of-pearl and jade, but nowhere near as impressive as Elowyn's suite.  Rákkhed followed him, remaining a profoundly respectful step behind his master as Jaedin left the viewing area and swept down a long, winding corkscrew stairway, dragging his hand along its railing.  

When he had reached its bottom, he paused.

"You think me foolish and impulsive, for this, my latest course of action," he said, without emotion or preamble – almost grouchily. 

Then he looked up.  

"Say it."

Rákkhed, if he was surprised at his lord's change in manner – normally, if Jaedin suspected his underlings of thought against him, his dangerous anger was clearly displayed – did not react.  He blinked, once, and spoke slowly and thoughtfully.

"If my lord indeed finds the princess of the faeries as beautiful," he replied, "Then she must be perilously so.  For it seems that he has lost his heart."

Jaedin averted his eyes.  That was, more or less, an affirmative answer to his second question.  He resumed his walk again, at a much slower pace this time, and Rákkhed's booted footsteps told him that the Antari followed behind.

"Indeed, it will soon be known to all, to everyone within the dread desert realm of Sytherria, that I have; although whether it will be before or _after_ the impending war, I have no idea."

And now they had come out of the shadowy inner chambers that they had just been within, and were stepping into a long, wide-open stairway of glossy black metal.  Jaedin held out his hand to the captain of the guard, his face devoid of its usual darkness and instead easily read, and, it might have been observed, earnest.

"I am _glad_ that I have your loyalty, in the face of all things, Captain," he said.

It was well known that a smile from the captain of the immortal, stern Antari was something that happened with even lesser frequency than the legendary blue moon; and when it did, it was something to be greatly marveled at.  And not only did Rákkhed crack a tiny bit of a smile – he grinned widely, and reached out to grasp his companion's forearm, as Jaedin did the same.  

Here, now, were the much-honoured master – who would lead millions of men into battle, to have them follow him with all their hearts, even to their deaths – and his most faithful and trusted servant.

"The Antari will never cease to give that loyalty, Jaedin DragonMaster," Rákkhed replied, using Jaedin's fabled surname for what was the first time in ages. "Even when you behave so badly that you really _don't_ deserve it."

"And I shall give you an answer for _that_, Captain, when I return for a report on our progress to the Dark Gate later this evening." 

Jaedin returned the grin, almost mischievously, and moved off down the hall, twisting his wrist so that he could give a short, saluting wave over his shoulder to the figure behind him.  Rákkhed returned the gesture.

"I'm certain that you will, my lord."

"Don't think that I _wouldn't_…" echoed back Jaedin's voice.  Then, he was gone.

*                       *                       *

In Brendan's given quarters, all four of the captured – or so they thought – faeries sat 'round in a circle, alternately discussing and then ruminating silently over their impending fates.  It seemed that the two males of their party had given themselves over to the thought that the Dark Lord meant one thing for having brought them to this imposing black fortress of metal: a purpose that included killing them, one by one, at his leisure.  Or handing them all over to his Lady, who would do with them as she pleased.

Sala and Elowyn, however, had been gifted at birth with what was widely known and respected as women's intuition; they had both come to the inward decision, between the two of them, that Jaedin's purpose in bringing them to his warship did not include a plan to slay them all.  That overrode sense, they argued.  Both Robbie and Brendan knew, as well as both Sala and Elowyn did, that the Dark Lord had not yet broken his promise to them, and whatever other deadly maneuvers he was capable of, lying to Elowyn herself was not one of them.  There had to be another reason, they said.

But to this, Robbie shot to his feet: pale and livid with anger.  As he spoke, Elowyn felt a faint ripple of awareness shoot through her, like waves in a stretch of still water after a pebble had been tossed into it.  

She felt they were being _listened to_.

"And what other reason _could_ that be?" Robbie burst out. "He lied to us – he lied to all of us, even Elowyn!  He never meant to bring us to the Dark Gate, and he would have never taken us there and then let us get away with destroying everything that he has for so long represented.  He is a part of that darkness; he will always be a part of it."

"Peace, Robbie; peace," murmured Sala, putting a hand on her friend's arm and pulling on it – with gentle but firm insistence – compelling him to take a seat.  Then she looked back around at the circle of her friends as they sat around her, all deadened and despairing in one way or another by this seemingly devastating turn of events.  

"Neither of you can predict the future," she said, evenly, "And neither of you have the sense of things that Elowyn and I _do_ possess.  There are ulterior motives here, and if the situation that is sitting plunk in front of your noses doesn't serve to tell you _something_ about that, I'd seriously question why you thought to come along on this quest at all."

Robbie and Brendan both looked, at turns, even more exceedingly dour at that comment, but said nothing, and so she went on.

Elowyn, meanwhile, had risen to her feet and was now crossing out of the center of the room.  She looked as if she was trying to listen very hard – her head cocked to one side, and her eyes were narrowed, ever so slightly.  There was something…something, very faint and very nearly intangible, niggling at the back of her mind, and, try as she might, she could not get a firm lock on what that something was.

"For one thing, if he had wanted to kill us, he could have done it in an instant when we were out there, in the desert of his own realm.  He knows the land here, and knows it well – it wouldn't have been hard for him to simply make an end of us.  The way that those…those _warriors_, whatever they were, just seemed to spring out of the sand certainly does suggest something, but…"

Robbie gave a snort, and retorted, "It doesn't just _suggest_ something, Sala – it almost quite literally comes up and bites you in the face.  He'd planned it, somewhere along the line.  He gave them orders to meet him here, and take us prisoner."

"He could have had us killed then…" 

Now Brendan took his turn at musing.  He still looked quite cynical about the whole scenario before them, however. 

"He could have easily done it, especially when Robbie…" 

The crown prince of Lærelin began to turn his head, ice blue eyes narrowing, and Brendan forsook that comment to lead on another train of conversation. 

"Anyways, he _could_ have had us killed then, or before."

"But he didn't – and he's not taken away our powers either, or even sapped them, or blocked them.  He could have easily done that before now, and yet he has not."

"Which doesn't count out the odds of him doing it sooner or later," Robbie insinuated, darkly.  Or more towards grumpily.  Whatever the chances had been, however remote, of him finally making a sort of amicable bond with the Dark Lord of Sytherria, they were now utterly shattered.  Robbie did not take betrayal well.

But then…who _did_…?  Or could?

Sala and Brendan continued their verbal tennis match conversation.

"You don't think he's brought us here to kill us, then?" Brendan questioned, a faint sardonic edge to his tone.  He was inclined, at the moment, to be very disbelieving of anything he saw or heard, and with at least somewhat good reason.  "Or to wait a while, and _then_ hand us over to the Queen?"

The look in Sala's hazel eyes was distant and thoughtful as she leaned back against the cushions that she sat upon.

"It would seem impossible that he would do such a thing; it appeared that he had made a sort of break with her, before we ever set out on this quest of ours," she reminded him. "And his reaction to his restored memories…he must have…"

And then she looked at Elowyn.  

The golden-haired faery princess had now gone to stand beside the window, across the room from them, and she seemed as if she had somehow been transported to a totally different world.  At any rate, she was completely unaware of them all now, and they could easily see it.  Sala shook her head, unable to speculate any further.

"He told her something…" she murmured. "He _must_ have.  There was no one else – certainly not one of us, and between them…"

She shook her head.

Brendan watched Elowyn's still figure as well, silent for a long moment.

"Strange how you begin to doubt yourself just when everything goes wrong," he said, then. "Up until that moment, even though you might have been through any number of smaller battles, struggles, before, you were able to be completely confident in your own words and say, 'Don't worry; everything will be in the right, when it all comes to an end.' Or," he added, somewhat ruefully, with a wry, self-deprecating half-smile, " 'Don't worry; a dark lord will _never_ break his promise.  We may take him on his word.' "

"And then he turns around and has us all taken prisoner.  So much for the poetic romanticism of all the ancient legends." Robbie cut in, sarcastically.

Sala turned a sympathetic glance upon him, smiling softly, and put an arm briefly around his shoulders. 

"Don't be a wet blanket, Rob," she told him. "Count the good things in life while you can – he _could_ have had us all separated, and then locked up in some horrid row of prison cells, the likes of which cannot be described.  Or we could be dead.  As I was saying, the situation does at least _somewhat_ point to a desire for us to be alive, and not dead.  I mean, why else would he have gone to all these things to procure not only accommodating but luxurious to the nth degree rooming for us?  No, my friends," she said, shaking her head, "My infallible woman's intuition tells me that we are yet to see another surprisingly, albeit most likely strange, turn in this little game of ours."

"I can be a wet blanket if I want," grumbled Robbie, even though they sensed that he was giving in to her words. "After all, _I_ was the one who got walloped on the head – not you.  _You_ haven't got a right to have a bad attitude about this whole affair."

Sala and Brendan glanced at one another, and shook their heads.

It seemed, for the moment, that they could only wait.  Whatever the Dark Lord's purposes were for bringing them here, under a heavy guard, it was hard to imagine, and somehow they knew that their guesses would probably not come even remotely close to the truth.  

Guessing, then, was only a waste of time.

Elowyn had heard everything that they had said, and knew that Sala was, once again, able to read her only too well.  Her cousin had sensed that Jaedin had told her something, and was even now getting nearer and nearer to the discovery of the…of the connection, that Elowyn knew she had with the Dark Lord.  No matter what things _looked_ like, she somehow knew that Jaedin had not broken his promise to her.  

When she closed her eyes, she could see visual memory of that moment in the stone room, when Jaedin had taken her hand, with the dagger in it, and brought it down upon his own skin…

She inhaled: a sharp, shuddering gasp of air, and opened her eyes.

The scenery of Sytherria met her gaze then, majestic and seemingly without boundary as she looked upon its rolling dunes and the sphere of sky above them.  The sand appeared to sparkle in the light of the moon, as the glider ship sped along on its course – on its course to a destination that she could not fathom.  

She continued to gaze downwards, watching the shadow of the immense vessel that they had now been brought aboard and given quarters in slip over the sand.

No: she knew it in her heart now – Jaedin had _not_ broken his promise.  Yes, perhaps he had made it look as if he had, but somehow, she sensed that they had not turned aside from their approach to the Dark Gate, and that he still desired her confidence in him.  But then she thought of how he had grabbed onto her, earlier than evening – her arm still ached with the memory of his gloved fingers closing down over her tender skin, and her head whirled when she recalled the whisking iciness of his breath on her face.  He had kept her from fainting, but he had also chased her down, like an animal.

Her breath felt short in her chest again, and her heart ached.

_Jaedin, Jaedin, Jaedin…will I ever be able to trust you?  Will my fear of you ever ebb?  Will you ever come out of the shadows, and let me love you?_

She looked back at her friends.  

They still seemed to be deep in their discussion, and from the looks of it, they were all talking about what the Dark Lord could have possibly meant by bringing them onto his warship.  Elowyn really didn't want to discuss it – she simply wanted to _know_.  

As she thought of this, the idea of just crossing the room, going to the door, and stepping out into the hallway beyond occurred to her.  

If only the door there did not happen to be locked – what would stop her from going out into the corridors of the structure, and searching out someone who _could_ answer her questions?  If not Jaedin, then surely someone else would be able to…

But just as she was debating this in her mind, the sense that someone had been listening to their discussions, and – even more unnervingly – her thoughts, intensified: blasting into her mind so that she almost clapped her hands onto her head to keep her every thought from being dragged out into the open air of the room.  And at the same moment, there was a knock on the door.  

They all froze, her friends looking at one another, and then to her.

Realizing that they waited upon her yea or nay to react, she gave a nod: open the door, she told Brendan with her eyes.  This her uncle did, and when he had, they found themselves all looking at the newcomer, who was none other than one of the stern, black-garbed figures whom they had seen in the desert earlier that evening.

He bowed to them, deeply and with what appeared to be sincere respect.  Then he turned his eyes upon Elowyn, and bowed again, with even more reverence.  She remained where she was, and acknowledged his presence as he straightened.

"I am Trasdan," he told them. "And I have come on official orders of my master, Jaedin of Sytherria.  He wishes to convey his apologies, both for your…rough treatment, previous to being brought here, and for his delay in making some necessary explanations to you.  It is his desire that you know immediately that you are _not_ to be held prisoner here, nor are you to have concern for your lives.  They are in no danger."

The Antari's lips held a flicker of a smile as he said this, as did his eyes.  Elowyn continued to look at him: incisive and unrelenting.  If he were here to speak to them, then he had better be speaking the truth.  And, somehow, she sensed that he was.

So she cleared her throat and stepped forward to address him.

"Then tell us, if you will, Master Trasdan – will we soon learn of what your master _did_ intend for us here, if it is _not_ death or imprisonment?  I am curious."

Again, the Antari bowed to her, and gave his seemingly mysterious smile.

"My lord knows this, and he intends to reveal all, fair princess," he told her. "He will answer all of your questions, in time, but first, he has sent me with his message – the pleasure of your company is requested in the banquet hall."

Elowyn alone had been prepared for this.  She had sensed that that was what Jaedin had been up to, and now she smiled, wryly and a bit grim.  Before her friends could make a reply to the invitation and before they could stop _her_ from doing so, she spoke.  

"We accept, then.  Give your master _my regards_."

Trasdan bowed once again, and promised that he would.  Then, after telling them that they would be escorted to the dining hall in a little more than an hour, he left: closing the doors behind him.  Then Elowyn's friends rounded on her.

"What the bloody underworlds did you mean by _that_?  You actually want us to go have dinner with that – that infuriating, domineering, arrogant blackguard of a warlord?" Robbie burst out, unable to control his frustration any longer. "Elowyn, I _saw_ how he treated you this evening; I know what he's done to you!  We _all_ do!  How can you be so willing to put up with the insults he heaps upon you?"

"Because it may be the only way to save us, Robbie," she told him, catching his wildly gesticulating hands in her own and making him look at her.  Her jade green eyes stared up into his, serious and quite calm. "It may be the only way to save _our world_.  And if I stop now, before I've learnt all of the story, I could miss the very most important parts of all – the climax and the end.  No matter what he's done to me before, Robbie…it's not unforgivable.  I can live with it."

"But could you live with being haunted, for the rest of your life?" he questioned back, calming slightly.

She only shook her head.

"The question of whether I will be haunted or not yet remains to be answered.  I intend to find out, and soon, if the story will end with a yes or a no.  Apparently, our quest is to continue; we've not been utterly betrayed."

_We are not lost._

But Elowyn knew, as they all went their separate ways to prepare for the evening – buckling down the hatches and putting on their individual armor of self-restraint, reserve, and cordial openness to explanation and discussion – that she was speaking this way to put them all at ease.  She could sense that they had not been betrayed, as she had said to them, but she was not as confident about everything else, within her soul.

She would not tell them, but she was afraid.

The thought of meeting up with Jaedin now, once more in his own element: as a warlord who commanded surely hundreds, if thousands, of warriors upon this mammoth vessel, in his own realm…it frightened her.  Something in her soul shied away from the inevitable meeting that she was now preparing herself for.  

She had once thought of Jaedin as bi-polar – she now saw that their relationship was composed of much of the same mettle.  One moment, they would rear back and bare their claws and fangs for verbal combat; the next, he would be soft and gentle and persuasive, and she would melt in his hands, at the touch of his caressing voice.  In a second, she would flail desperately within the net of her own emotions to escape – to forget – the way that her heartstrings pulled at her whenever she looked at him, and try to make herself remember that they could never be as one.  

The light and the darkness…two such entities could never exist, side by side.

Never, even in a world where nothing was impossible.  

She feared him; she despised him; he amused her, he annoyed her, he perplexed and intrigued her, and he drew her to him like no one else ever had.  She had had kisses before she had ever come into the grasp of the Dark Lord of Sytherria, and she had experienced many a caress.  But _never_ before had she fallen so deeply, and in such a way, as she had when she had first looked into those silvery gray eyes of the Ebony Queen's black knight.

Had it been when she had first seen him, lying asleep with his arm around her waist to keep her from escaping, from running, that every atom of her being had begun to slowly pull her towards attraction to him?  Or had it been later, when they had had their first caustic war of the words?  She knew of one – no, _two_ – clear moments that she had actually been cognizant of her feelings for him, when they had been in Sytherria.

_Ah, Jaedin!  You confuse me so greatly; I do not know whether I ought to hate you or love you, whether I ought to be trying to pitch you off of a cliff or allowing you to take me in your arms whenever you want, for I shall always respond well to it!_

_You silly vampyre._

Perhaps tonight he would show her what her heart truly felt.  Of course, that would only come to pass if she fell under his spell again, or searched out the answer on her own.  But a part of her asked, as she began to brush onto her eyelids the dark, cobalt blue eye-makeup that had been provided for her in her room, on her dressing table—

_What are you walking yourself into, Elowyn of Avalennon?_

Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf, the Big Bad Wolf…

*                       *                       *__

True to their word, a detachment of nine Antari guardsmen arrived within a little more than an hour to escort the quartet of faeries through the hallways of the Sytherrian warship to the banquet hall.  On their way to this place, the faeries quickly saw why – the inner structure of the vessel was enough to boggle even a highly imaginative mind.  They could have easily seen themselves getting lost somewhere within it.

Meanwhile, Jaedin awaited them at the helm of the _Apocalypse_: a huge, equipment-filled chamber that was the nucleus of the ship, where its movements and functions were controlled.  

A wide half-circle of a walkway was around part of the room, and a wall of diamond-glass windows was on the other, allowing everyone within the place access to an unparalleled view of the ship's progress over the terrain.  A doorway opened onto the walkway level, leading across to a stairwell that brought whomever stepped upon it down into the main portion of the room, where Jaedin's command seat and the operational controls were also located.  

Right now, both the Dark Lord and his captain of the guard were present: Jaedin, seated, in his casual, complacent way, and Rákkhed standing at attention behind his right shoulder.

The vampyre's liquid mercury eyes scanned over the landscape beyond the windows with an eerie intensity.  Whatever was out there, he knew of it, and – without a shadow of a doubt – he had _seen_ it.

At length, he sat back and relaxed a bit, although his eyes never moved from those windows.

"They will be here soon?"

Normally, when the Dark Lord was expecting guests, he would have said those words as a direct statement, and not a question.  Rákkhed Dahk-Marr, however, was completely accustomed to his lord's sudden and erratic changes in temperament and behavior, and he had learned very well how to conceal whatever surprise he might have had at Jaedin's alterations.  Or he simply wasn't surprised at all.

He nodded.

"Yes, my lord."

Jaedin did not react to this; but if anyone had looked at him at that very moment, they would have taken note of the Dark Lord's air.  

His habit, when seated, was to recline casually and nonchalantly: long legs stretched out in front of him, sometimes crossed over his booted ankles, with his arms draped over the armrests, fingers idly drumming in the air to a rhythm that only he knew of.  Not now, however; now, he was sitting back in the chair, leaning forward so that he was almost hunched over, one elbow placed on the armrest, the other on his upper leg, his hand hanging loosely at the wrist.  It was easy to tell, upon close enough scrutiny, that he had an aura of tension about him.  

And well that he _did._

The vampyre Dark Lord knew full well just what the consequences of his most recent actions might indeed bring to him.  He had tread the line between obedience and treachery before, and only too closely – that time, it had resulted in his alienation from the one whom he had once served, and eventually, he had turned against her entirely.  Day to day, ever since then, he had lived with its results.  Remaining optimistic about his even being able to get into the Black City, in order to prevent a dire attack on his life essence from happening…well, it was becoming more and more difficult.  Yet because he was arrogant and self-assured, a result of the many hundreds of thousands of years he had lived upon the earth, he clung to that hope.

He did not know if Elowyn and her friends would be able to forgive him, even if he _did_ explain his motivations for bringing them onto his warship, flanked by the Antari, and even if he _did_ attempt to prove that his purpose was honorable.  The Queen had angered at his disobedience, his testing of her, and she had become his enemy; Elowyn and the faeries that were ever with her might do the same thing.  

Perhaps he had tested them too far.  

Perhaps they would no longer desire any contact with him whatsoever, even if it meant that they would have to find their way to the Dark Gate alone.

Something in him shuddered and withdrew from the severity of that thought.  He sat back, fingers clenching into a fist, as his jaw tensed up.  

To never see Elowyn again?  He would not think of it.

Fingers making a steeple, as he reclined in the chair with the slowly unfolding grace of a panther, he raised his voice a little louder than normal and inquired to his helmsman how they were holding to their course.  They were making steady progress, was the reply; they traveled at about fifty miles to an hour, which was relatively slow for the _Apocalypse_, but not an objectionable pace.  They would cross over the border between Elvendome and Sytherria again sometime the next day, most likely near mid-morning.  

Jaedin nodded to this news, apparently satisfied; then, the doors above the stairway at the head of the room opened, and a black-robed Antari came down the stairs, stepping over to quickly speak in a low voice to Rákkhed.  

The captain of the guard, when their brief conversation had come to an end, turned to his master and informed him, "The Princess and her companions will be in the reception room in a moment, my lord."

Jaedin stood, and the stiffness in his shoulders could be noted.

"Very well," he replied to those words. "We shall go meet them, then."

And with a sweeping of his trailing, full-cut black velvet cloak, the Dark Lord left the immediate vicinity of the command chamber and ascended the steps that led up from it.  The pair of Antari who waited before the doors that led out of the room stood at attention at his approach and reached to open the doors at Rákkhed Dahk-Marr's one-handed gesture.  

Jaedin, already focusing on what must be done in the evening ahead, walked past them and came to a halt just beyond the doorway.

The escort that he had ordered was already there: all nine of the Antari, who stood in a ring around their charges.  He was faintly pleased to see that Elowyn and her friends had chosen to dress accordingly for the banquet that was to be held that evening.  

Brendan wore a silver-edged tunic of sage green, with a long hem that came about halfway to his knees and full sleeves that became tight just below the elbow; his breeches were a rich caramel shade, making a vivid contrast to his dark brown boots.  Robbie had donned a finely tailored tunic and breeches of sapphire-blue, and boots of a colour that was nearly black.   The shoulders on the tunic came out sharply, and the tunic itself was stiff down its front with a heavy embellishment of scrolling, vine-like silver embroidery.  Sala was arrayed magnificently in a long, sleek gown of violet-hued velvet, with a graceful V-shaped neckline, which gathered at its center and was accented with circular-cut diamonds and pearls.  Its sleeves were cut so that they only just covered her shoulders, and fluttered when she moved.

But Elowyn, by far, drew his attention as she stood there, in the center of the room, surrounded by her friends and the guards.

She'd chosen the gown that he had – secretly – hoped she would, and somehow, as he looked at her, completely riveted by her exotic, feminine beauty, he knew that she had guessed at this, and was pleased in some way by his reaction.  

Her gown was of a crepe-like midnight blue satin, with an off-the-shoulder neckline, which plunged down to a tapered waist that clung smoothly to her body with the aid of its laced-up back.  The waistline itself was slung low on her hips, detailed with much gold and jewel-studded embroidery work.  Of course, the flaring skirt was no less intricate.  Sapphires, amethysts, topaz, and chains of gold were everywhere upon it: lining the waist, the bodice, hanging upon the skirt.  Harlequin-like diamond shapes of orange-gold satin broke the dark blue void upon the bodice, while material of that same colour had been draped about the skirt on its front and sides.  

On her neck, arms, and fingers, and in her ears, she wore jewelry that matched perfectly with her attire – the only thing that was reminiscent of her former look was the chain of silver and its pendant of milky white crystal, the gift from her long-deceased birth parents.

_Reminding him… _

She had pulled her hair back, away from her face, allowing her elegantly dark accenting makeup to be seen; the part of that hair that she had up, she had pinned halfway back on her head with an elaborate headpiece of gold, its wing-like tips wrapping around her scalp to hold it securely in place.  The remaining curtain of her pale, wavy locks fell freely down past her shoulders, onto her back, almost reaching her knees, with threads of gold and gems of sapphire glinting in it here and there.  

Her whole look was confident and strong, like a queen who was in complete control of everything that surrounded her…and yet she also seemed as if she was only a very young girl, who was innocent and pure: hardly naïve, but untouched by the world of darkness around her.  She was a child of Spring, as he had once called her – a fair white lily, sprung in the midst of a forest as the snows of winter had just begun to melt from their cascades around her.  

Oh yes, she was cold: cold and stern and unbending in her regard of him.  Yet he knew that, once that outward veneer of ice had been penetrated, the soul of a princess who dreamed of all that could be lay, waiting to be stirred and warmed by the touch of him who would love her for all of eternity.  It was obvious to anyone in the room at that moment – the Dark Lord was completely riveted by the fair young princess before him, her mermaid's eyes averted from his.  

The Antari looked to their master, expecting him to speak, to give a command, to say something, but their shock was destined to grow, for Jaedin remained motionless: his eyes locked on her.  However, this lasted for only a moment; then, the vampyre came out of his trance-like daze and stood back, assuming a cordial and affable stance.

"Greetings, milords and miladies!" he said, his voice immediately resonant and arresting in the echoing silence of that room.  

They all began to breathe and think again: the spell of the quietness broken.  He paced forward, eyeing them all with a look that might have either been considered that of a predator: stealthy and aware and scheming, or that of one who was putting some sort of test before his guests.  They could not guess.  

"I must convey to you my most heartfelt apologies for your treatment thus far this evening," he added, and explained, "But I hope that, perhaps, you will be able to overlook such a failing.  And now, if I may have the pleasure of showing you the way to the dining room?  Our long-delayed repast awaits us."

And he turned his most magnetic, charming smile upon Elowyn, who had still not yet looked up at him.  He stopped directly in front of her and offered her his arm.  

Now she finally met his gaze with hers, and, to his surprise and secret delight, she did not show even the slightest wavering of fear.  Or, if she did, she simply hid it very well.  Whatever her true reaction, she laid her fingertips along the flat of his arm, and then let him take her hand and draw her own arm through his.

Brendan, Robbie, and Sala must have had some sort of objection to this, but none of them said or did anything – possibly, she thought, this was because they were still surrounded by a host of heavily-armed Antari guards, who would not likely give a second thought to wielding those razor-sharp and many-bladed scimitars that hung at their sides, in defense of their master.  

As if Jaedin even needed help when it came to defending himself against them.

They passed through more hallways, rooms, and doors than she had even yet seen during their progress to place that the Dark Lord had designated as their meeting point, and then they had come into a huge, long room that could have only been the dining room.  

Within it was a scarlet- and gold-hung table, at least five feet wide and more than sixty feet long, or so she estimated.  A set of five tall, heavy-looking, and exceedingly ornate chairs had been placed at its furthest end, and it was to these that Jaedin guided them.  

Elowyn he seated first, in the chair that was to the right of the head of the table – the head of the table, she knew, was where _he_ was to sit.  Sala went to his left, with Brendan and then Robbie beyond her.  

At a gesture from Jaedin, the Antari disappeared from the room, and what would eventually turn out to be a slightly grim dinner party commenced.

They were soon impressed by the level of opulence that he seemed determined to bedazzle them with – the décor and accents of the room were all of the finest craftsmanship that any of them had ever yet seen, of such a caliber.  Everything that they saw around them, from the walls to the floor to the table, chairs, and whatever else that had been left in between, was done in either scarlet, gold, white, or black; their various silverware, goblets, and plates were all entire composed of gold and crystal and black onyx.  

The banquet itself was sumptuous and decadent, almost to a level of guilt-inducement.  In between the platters of fire-seared vegetable dishes, perfectly done soufflés and pastries and breads, flavorful meats and condiments, were towers of sugar-crusted fruit: sparkling beneath the light of the chandeliers above their heads.  No less than three different wines were they treated to – a dark, sharp-tasting merlot, a sweet red, and a shimmering, effervescent pear-tainted champagne among them – and the dessert course would have been enough, Elowyn thought, to reduce even the most self-denying minimalist to bliss.

As they ate, she also took note of Jaedin's observation of them: her friends did not make a single overture to speak to him all the while, even when he attempted to solicit conversation every now and again.  She herself did most of the talking to him, when they did talk at all, and never once was it about what was going to happen now, in their quest.  Odd, that they would have all sat around together in Brendan's room, and discussed all of the questions that they now had for the Dark Lord, and then, when he had invited them to dinner, so that they might ask him their questions, simply refuse to say anything at all.

She looked at him carefully out of the corner of her eye, as she dipped her spoon into the mound of brown sugar-encrusted yam soufflé that she had on her plate.  

The vampyre sat at the head of the table, directly next to her, with one hand resting beside his own plate, near to his glass of wine.  It was, again, a deep red colour that reminded her almost of blood, and she found that she had to look away whenever he took a sip of it.  He had eaten relatively little in the duration of the drawn-out eight-course banquet, and she found herself wondering why.  He seemed intent, instead, on watching them all.

The way that he was looking at them made her slightly nervous; she didn't really want to know what thoughts were going through his head, and that was what made her realize why they hadn't asked him anything – it was _fear_.  Each one of them knew very well just what he could do to them now, if they crossed his temper, and none of them wanted to risk it. 

Better to remain silent, they thought, and let him do as he pleases, and release us eventually, than to bring his anger down upon our heads.

Again, she looked at him.

Jaedin, she could tell, was slightly frustrated at their seeming ignoring of him.  He had invited them to dinner, expecting a barrage of their questions and accusations, and instead they said nothing.  Nothing at all.  She sensed the faint, dark ripples of anger coming from within his soul, and restrained her urge to shudder.

Tonight, he seemed different – he remained a Dark Lord, but she could not see him as their captor, or rather, _her_ captor.  Her friends surely saw differently.  Something was going on here, and she did not know what it was, but she could feel it.  He even _looked_ different.  

In all the time that she had known him, _seen_ him, Jaedin had been the master of shadows, a figure perpetually garbed in the colours of nighttime and fire, like a dragon.  But now he wore a tunic and breeches of – shockingly enough – pure white velvet.  Its collar came up, as usual, high around his unusually graceful neck, and the main bulk of the tunic was tailored sleekly to his chest and waist.  The sleeves were like Brendan's: full-cut until the elbows, and from there down, composed of black velvet.  Along the sides of his legs ran a braid of gold – of course _not_ silver – the pattern of which was mirrored in the belt he wore about his waist, which drew attention to the attractive slimness of it.  

And, predictably enough, he also wore yet another black velvet cloak, with a golden chain to hold it on: this cloak was not hooded, but had a crest-like collar that swept back to frame his face and neck.  Even his boots were not black – they were a warm brown leather.

Elowyn was perplexed by all of this.

For how long had Jaedin fought against anything that had to do with the light, having served the forces of darkness for many hundreds of thousands of years?  And now, suddenly, it seemed as if he no longer sought to utterly destroy them; even in the face of the fact that he could have done so, and easily, at that, he did not strike out against them.  Then there was the whole deal of his strangely modified behavior, his change in garb, and the banquet…he certainly wasn't treating them as a dark lord might.

He turned his head suddenly and caught her looking at him.  

Elowyn fought to tear her eyes away, fought the urge to get up and run from the room, and – more importantly – from _him_.  She ought not to have read so much into these new 'changes'.

For in the depths of those silvery gray eyes, she still saw the soul of a hunter, a predator who had stalked long and hard after her.

He had not given up.

And she feared him.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Jaedin!  Bad!  Oh well – we still love him.  And he may not be as wicked here as he's making himself out to be.  The things we do out of necessity…but will Elowyn and her companions be able to forgive him for this latest apparent travesty?  Read on to find out…

But before you do, Kates has some news – a few months ago, my aunt took several of my illustrations and the first three chapters of the first tale in this series, _Wings of the Heart_, with her after a visit.  She works with a publishing company, and will hopefully soon be presenting what I gave her to the guy who heads it up.  In short: _I may be getting published!_  

(Cross your fingers with me, will you…)


	31. Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty-Eight –

Eclipse of the Heart

Shortly after this, the dinner was over, and Jaedin stood, telling them all in an abrupt, cold tone of voice that he would be needed again at the helm; they must stay on course.  What that course was, she couldn't tell, but it seemed that he desired to give them no time to ask.  The Antari reappeared, and he instructed them to return the faery guests back to their rooms, where they would remain for the rest of the night.

It went without saying that that last comment of his command was a scarcely veiled threat.

He left them before they had even all stood up from the table, and then the Antari were escorting them back to their rooms.  Elowyn was too confused and frightened by her own emotions, the turmoil within her heart, to speak with even remote coherence to anyone, and so she went straight to her room and shut the door.

Once there, she crossed the deep green carpet and went to her bed, to sit on its edge and think, purposefully, to herself.

Her thoughts began to wander…  

_Trust,_ resounded in her mind, like the tolling of a gigantic cathedral bell.  _Trust, and faith.  Faith and trust.  These you will live by, for they are a part of you – they are a part of everything.  All will be answered in the end…_

Much as she feared Jaedin, she knew that she must speak to him, and yet she knew that venturing out to find him, alone, would scarcely bring enjoyable repercussions for her.  It would either anger him, or upset her companions.  She almost considered calling out to him in her mind, and demanding that he should come and speak to her, but then she remembered that he was now busy with other, more pressing matters.  Dragging him to her side, when there might be so much at stake, could hardly be honourable.

_Jaedin, Jaedin…why must I be apart from you?  Why do you frighten me so?  I feel my heart begging to be near you, but you are everything that I have ever been taught to stay away from, to avoid and distrust…why must it be so?_

_My heart belongs to you._

At that moment, she couldn't tell if that thought was hers, or his, but she didn't have time to so much as think about it – in the next split second, there was a knock on her door.  It was probably one of her friends, most likely Sala, come to talk to her about that evening.  With a sigh, Elowyn rallied her mental forces and got up off of her bed, brushing the mussed silken skirts of her gown back into their proper places around her, and went to answer the door.

It was not Robbie, or Brendan, or Sala at the door.

Rákkhed Dahk-Marr stood before her.

Elowyn froze, slightly startled, and with good reason.  A vibration of apprehension ran through her, as she sensed his reason for coming.  Rákkhed spoke quickly then, as if to hurry in assuring her that he brought no overture of war to her.

"I come at the command of my lord, Jaedin of Sytherria," he said, "Who requests one last favor of his esteemed guests.  Princess Elowyn, you are to come with me."

She stared at him for a moment, trying to comprehend this.  Jaedin had sent his captain of the guard with a summons, a summons for her to come to him.  What could he possibly want of her now?  Would he finally answer her questions?  Could this at last be her chance to have her answers?  Or would it be into darkness and evil that she descended…

Now she noticed that Robbie, Brendan, and Sala had come out of their rooms and were standing there, watching her exchange with the captain of the Antari with looks of both alarm and question on their faces.  She made a slight quelling motion with one hand, knowing that they had heard Rákkhed make his master's request known to her, and also knowing that they would attempt to keep her from what they saw as danger.

And then she nodded, assenting to go with the Antari to wherever his master awaited her.  Jaedin wanted her to come to him?  Then she would.  

Rákkhed stood aside, allowing her to exit her room, closing the door behind her, and they went for the door that led out into the halls of the warship.  Before Rákkhed had stepped outside, however, Robbie stopped him: putting one hand on the Antari's arm.  The young prince's blue eyes were cold and smoldering with resentment and threat.

"If _any_ harm comes to her…" he warned.

Rákkhed, understanding and – it may have been said – sympathizing with the boy's emotions, gently put the hand on his arm away from himself, and gave a slight bow, his eyes never leaving Robbie's.

"I will do my best to ensure her safety," he said.

Then he turned, with one last bow, and was gone with the princess.

*                       *                       *

Rákkhed, wordless, led Elowyn along through the glider ship, taking her in a direction that she knew was totally opposite to that which they had gone in order to reach the dining room.  She was now certain that the vessel that they were upon had at least seven different levels, and there were many more rooms within it than she had at first estimated there to be.  The whole ship was a sort of floating fortress.

In the area that they now traversed, there were hardly any lights lit, and Elowyn realized that they must have been drawing near to the Dark Lord's own personal quarters.  Jaedin, as he himself had told her on several occasions, was not incredibly fond of the light.  As he was a vampyre, it was obvious why.

Suddenly, they had come out into a wide-open room, which had a short flight of steps leading up to a gigantic set of double-doors: black, and steel-bound, with sharp, wicked-looking sconces on either side of them to light the air, and fill it with a vague fragrance of incense.  The shadows felt as if they slithered around her.

Elowyn trailed behind the captain of the Antari as he approached those doors, pushing one of them open so that there was room enough for them to enter through it.  He motioned with his hand for her to follow him.

"Come," he said, holding out his hand. "Come."

Well, she couldn't very well refuse.  Whether she liked it or not, Jaedin _would_ have her in whatever room was beyond those doors – even if it meant him coming out there himself and swinging her over his shoulder, like an errant child or a bag of so much sugar.  Better to preserve her dignity, and walk in with what composure she had.

But as she followed the Antari's black-robed figures in through those doors, she felt the very core of her being shaking with dread, with anticipation of what may be coming to her.  She remembered all too well how he had kissed her that night in _Dranthiris-Ankhar_, and how close she had come to utterly surrendering to him, to giving up whatever he asked of her, to doing whatever he said, if only to be with him.  It was utterly dangerous.

She could not go back now, though.  She was already inside of the room.

Rákkhed strode forward a few more steps, before he stopped and paid homage to the seemingly empty air in the chamber.  As he did so, Elowyn glanced around herself: feeling small and weak in the midst of so many shadows.  

The atmosphere in this room was not only black and full of the many layers of shadows: it was also quite cold, like a tomb.  It seemed empty, although she guessed that it was most likely not.  In front of her, she saw the stark outlines of a huge, hourglass-shaped stairway, at the top of which was an enormous glass bubble of a window, its frames constructed of pure, black-silver steel.  Through those windows, she could see the star-studded night sky.

She shivered, wanting to shrink back and hide.

_What am I doing here?  Fates, why did I come?_

"My lord, the Princess." Rákkhed said, his voice shattering the silence.

Before the echoes of that sally even faded into nonexistence, Elowyn felt that there was a pair of eyes somewhere in the great darkness that surrounded her, and, even more frighteningly, they had focused on her.  Then, she heard his voice.

"Very good, Captain."

A pause, and then the words that caused her mind to explode with fright—

"You may go."

_NO!_ she felt like screaming.  She watched, helplessly, as the Antari moved towards the door; in what felt like a split second, he had vanished through them, slipping out of her sight like a shadow.  She had been left alone, with the living shadows.  _No!  Do not leave me here!  Let me out, let me out!  I cannot stay here!_

But Rákkhed was already beyond hearing her, even if she did scream, and there was simply nothing that she could do.  She had to stay now.

Something gleamed from within the darkness, drawing her attention, and she, after glancing around herself again – and seeing nothing – moved towards it.  Jaedin had not, as of yet, spoken to her.  She crossed the room, and the shadows unfolded before her, allowing her full view of her surroundings.  It appeared to be a sort of throne room; indeed, there was the throne itself, sitting on the landing halfway up the stairway.

"Elowyn…" 

Again, his seemingly disembodied voice came out of the shadows around her, and she could not decide where exactly he was.  His pronunciation of her name made it into a caress, and it was all she could do not to succumb to the false sense of comfort and warmth that it gave to her.

"Welcome," he said. "Please – have a seat."

A few of the sconces that lined the walls of the room lit, the flames within them leaping up to give a faint, ambient glow to the darkness.  She now saw that there were two available seats in the room – the throne, and a mound of sensuously soft-looking pillows off to one side, thrown in a pile onto a thick, elaborate rug, near a low table.

He was giving her a choice.

It hardly even took her a moment's reflection to decide upon what she thought was the relative safety of the cold, hard black throne.  She slid into it, still looking around herself for any sign of him, and felt even smaller as she froze there: the throne's immense, carved back towering above her, looking down on her.  

There was a sound that might have been a soft chuckle from within the shadows – he had taken note of her choice.  The sound of it made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up, again, and she went rigid with fear and anxiety.  

What new game was he going to play with her now?  He had her at his whim, and he could very easily employ whatever sort of cruel mirth that he wanted to on her, to spend his wrath and need for vengeance…

"Did you enjoy the dinner tonight, Elowyn?"

Stiffly, she replied, "Yes."

Jaedin, deciding that he wanted to be closer to her now – closer than the cloak of the shadows would allow him to be, at any rate – materialized from the darkness behind her, and slowly approached the throne, his footsteps silent upon the black onyx floor.  She did not see him; did not mark his approach.  He smirked to himself.

"Ah, but you are lying to me, fair one," he said, in a knowing, patronizing manner, much like that a teacher would use in correcting a pupil struggling in error.  _And a teacher is what you will play tonight, Jaedin DragonMaster…_

She sat up straight in her seat, as he allowed her to hear his voice close at hand, almost next to her ear.  In reality, he stood behind her, but off to the side enough so that he could see a sliver of her profile.  She stiffened, and sat up straight, her head turning as she looked slightly to the side.  He felt his heart pound.

"_Can_ I, _Ríth-Anstarinaor_?" she questioned him.  Her voice was alarmed and breathless as she asked this. "Or do you not only have the ability to reach into my mind, but to know my deepest thoughts as well?"

_Your thoughts are your own,_ Elowyn, he whispered in his mind, but only to himself, as he continued to watch her, in silence, before replying.  _I will not touch them – but I can draw upon what I feel coming from you: your dreams, your desires, and your fears.  In this, I am the artist, and you are my subject.  But I do not know your thoughts._

"It is all a matter of _perception_, sweetest…" he told her, speaking softly and tenderly, as if to convey to her the fact that he meant her no harm. "And my name is _Jaedin_…do you not remember?"

She did not take the bait; she would not change the course of their discussion.  He realized, with a pang of chagrin and frustration with himself, that she was yet determined to be angry with him – she may have sensed his intentions, but much remained to be dealt with.  In the end, however, he knew that only she would ever heed him.

"You haven't answered my question," Elowyn fired back, her jade green eyes narrowing.  She didn't like it when he was evasive with her.

Well, _she_ was also trying to evade _him_ – to deter him from the discussion that they both knew they must soon have, and he decided to let her have her way, and played along with her, for the moment.  Indulgently, then, he made his answer.

"How do I know that it is a lie that has fallen from those sweet lips of yours, my frozen white lily?" he asked, lightly; then he let his voice take on a darker, more compelling and ardent tone. "I can hear it in your more rapid heartbeat, in the sharp, shallow breaths that you take into your lungs; I can smell it, in the air of this very room; I can see it in the dilating pupils of those lovely green eyes…"

He trailed off into sibilance, and moved forward.  Now, at last, he would approach her in concrete, tangible form.  He reached forward and touched her hand with his own, as he continued, in spite of her gasp, "I can _feel _it in your rigid body."

As he had half-expected she would, Elowyn stood, pulling away from him: only to have him almost violently whirl her into him, yanking the two of them close together.  

He looked down into her eyes, regarding her much as a predator might its fallen victim, she thought – analyzing and assessing her.  

Her fear climbed into her throat, begging to be let out, and she swallowed, trying to keep it from taking away her sanity, as she gazed back into those gray, violet-flecked eyes, which seemed to burn with a glowing, incandescent flame as they looked upon her.

"And…" he continued, as he ran a gloved finger down the side of her cheek, not stopping until his hand had come to rest in the curve between her neck and shoulder, cupping there as if it had a right to, "I _think_…I may even be able to _taste_ it, if I wanted to…"

Elowyn writhed away, openly showing her fear of him for the first time ever when he had touched her.  Jaedin loosened his grip a bit, and released her, staring after her as his eyes lost their fire and became dark, almost sad.  She backed away from him, seeming as if she was struggling against great, wracking sobs from within.

"Don't," she begged him, "Please don't."

"Elowyn…" 

He stretched out a hand towards her, as they stood there together in that room – the throne now between them. 

"Do not fear me."

She made an abstracted movement with her hands, shaking her head from side to side so viciously that it made her golden hair whirl out in a pale aura around her.

"How can I do otherwise?" she asked, despairingly: almost more to herself than to him. "You hold the lives of my dearest friends, _my_ _world_, in the palm of your gloved hand."

Jaedin looked at her for a split second longer, and then – without stepping any nearer to her – slowly began to remove his black velvet gloves, finger by finger, his eyes never leaving her as he did so.  When he had them both off, he carefully leaned forward, and placed them on the armrest of the throne.  Having done this, he stood back, the corners of his mouth curving a bit.

"Not anymore, Princess," he told her. "There – you see?  I _can_ be reasonable."

But she would not come back to him again, although she was now eyeing him with mistrust, rather than fear.  He was certain, however, that that fear would return full-force, if he did anything to re-ignite it.  And he did not desire to do this.

"You have a very _odd_ way of showing your thanks, Dark One."

He only just kept himself from grinning – which would have exposed his vampyre teeth, and might have reminded her to be fearful again – as she called him that.  At least she was becoming at ease enough to again use her given nickname for him.

"Ah yes," he said, coming around the side of the throne, slowly advancing on her. "You saved my life, and your uncle restored to me my memory – my recollection of childhood memories and long-forgotten past, my heritage.  For which I will, undoubtedly, be ever grateful to you…" 

She had not moved back again as he had walked towards her, and now she allowed him, without protest, to gather her hands into his, and draw her along with him as he seated himself in the throne – causing her to perch herself in his lap.  Her eyes removed themselves from his and averted to the floor, where they remained until Jaedin became impatient with being ignored, and took her chin between his fingers.  He turned her head, gently forcing her to look at him.  

They gazed at one another in silence.

Then, she spoke.

"It would seem, my lord," she said to him, in a soft tone, "That you took our help as more of an offense than an aid."

Jaedin let his left eyebrow lift, as he altered his expression from scrutinizing to half-skeptical, half-amused.  Fully disbelieving.

"An offense?" he echoed. "Nay indeed, beauteous Princess!  I simply found the need to make certain that your more highly vocal and dare-I-say more easily-exasperated friends were kept from making a commotion while I held a brief meeting with my elite guard.  That is all.  My intentions are still to bring you to the Dark Gate, and then to the Black City.  You may trust my word on this; I will not lie to you.  I _cannot_."

Elowyn stirred uneasily, as she became ever more aware of what was going on between them at that moment – she was sitting there, on his lap, and it could very easily be considered as a more close contact than she might desire.  But then she looked into his eyes, and was immediately arrested by the emotions that she glimpsed passing through their silvery depths.  He had not lied to her.  He never had.  He wouldn't.

She then saw the real words within those eyes.

With infinite slowness and care, she leaned towards him, until their faces were mere inches apart, and then she reached out – hesitantly – and let her hand come to rest on his high collar.  Velvet brushed against her hand, and she was reminded of how, once, his lips, which felt so much the same, had brushed against her very fingertips.

"If I were to promise to stay here, with you – forever – after this…would you let them go?" she whispered, not releasing him from the power of her gaze. "If I ran from you again, would you come after me?"

She bit her lip, not truly knowing if she could bring into being her next words; but then, before she could wonder any further, they simply came flowing forth from her lips, as simple and easy as that.

"If I _loved_ you…" she said, "Would we become everything to one another?"

His eyes gazed back into hers, telling her the answer to all of those questions.

"Our agreement remains in place, Princess," he murmured, and she sensed that – right at that moment – he very much wanted to kiss her, but wouldn't.  

She felt a pang of sudden, unexplainable, childish disappointment.  

_Why not?_

"My promise to you was sealed in blood – I do not intend to break it.  You know that I cannot lie to you; I cannot deceive you.  Nor," as his hand cupped around the side of her face once again, the warmth of his skin seeping into her, making her want to close her eyes and lean into his touch, "_will_ I."

She tried to see into his mind, to know what he was thinking.

"What do you want, Jaedin…"

At her words, he pulled back, his hand leaving the side of her face, and she realized that she had caused a wall to be put up between them – she had distressed him, or given him cause for regret.  

"You see within me, Princess – as you _are_ within me," he told her, and let her stand, his hand sliding off from around her waist; she had not even realized that it had been there.  

A fiery blush kindled to her cheeks, as he stood and took a step or two away from her, silent for a moment.  Then, he revealed, "I'm afraid that I haven't been entirely truthful with you, however, fairest – I did ask you to come here, tonight, for a reason other than reassuring you of my…_fidelity_, to our agreement." 

He said the word 'fidelity' as if it had a bad taste on his tongue, when used in such a context, and he wanted to spit it out.  Now he was regarding her with his business air: calm, analytical, and formal. 

"I would like to discuss with you the, ah, terms of the said bargain.  There is something that I would like for us to add to it."

She ran her gaze up and down him, suspiciously.

Once again, he was playing a game with her.

"And what is that?"

His answer, as she might have been able to predict – had she really thought about it – shocked her, and she felt frightened again.

"A kiss," he told her. "I want a kiss."

With admirable composure, in the face of such things, she withdrew away from him, as she said, "I do not know if I can give you such a thing, my lord.  A kiss from you has proven a far more deadly, far more intoxicating and consuming entity than I would have been like, at first, to believe.  _Or_ imagine."

Still he walked towards her, and she stopped moving away.

"But we are _both_ deadly, Princess…" he whispered to her.

His arms went around her waist, his hands gentle but insistent as he pulled her carefully to him; Elowyn restrained her urge to close her eyes and lose herself in the whirling maelstrom of her mind.  The blackness threatened to consume her again, but she would not give in to it.  As he leaned down, bringing his head close to hers, she turned her head away: at the very last moment, so that his lips only caught her on the side of the mouth, instead of full on the lips.

Jaedin, however, instead of reacting with anger and annoyance at her refusal to let him truly kiss her, merely looked satisfied.  He _was_, really; for he saw, in the flickering shadow of doubt that went over the princess's beautiful features, her temptation to respond – to let him stoop to kiss her again, and this time allow him to have her lips.  

She wanted him to kiss her, and this was enough to please _him_.

Elowyn drew an unsteady breath, and said, remarkably calm, "In this game, we are both deadly, Dark Knight…"

Then her hand had come up to stroke his cheek, but Jaedin suddenly flinched back, the look of affection and remembrance leaving his proud features as something much darker, something much more haunting, replaced it.  

Without warning to her, he turned away, walking down the stairway to the main floor of the room.  There he stood for a long moment, his gaze rooted to the floor, as she remained where she was, wondering what she might have done to upset him so.

"You may go, Princess," he then informed her.  He made a sudden distracted, half-hearted gesture towards the door, which she noted had been left open wide enough to admit a thin stream of light from the chamber beyond. 

"I'll not further disturb your evening with my foolish requests or my personal _demons_."

His back was to her now, but the tremor that went through those straight, powerful shoulders, beneath their black velvet cloak and tunic, was unmistakable.  Something, from within, deeply troubled him.  

Elowyn gathered her skirts in one hand, to keep them out of the way of her feet, and slowly went down the stairs, cautiously approaching the Dark Lord from behind.  She gazed at him for a moment, and he felt that her watchful eyes would bore holes in the back of his shaven scalp.  

Gritting his teeth against a wave of emotion, he lashed out in his mind, but without allowing her to hear it – _Would you just _leave_, child?  You've no idea what things pass through my mind at this moment, you cannot understand them, and you would be appalled by their darkness if you were to be exposed to them!  Why don't you run, now that you can?  I have told you to go; I will not follow you._

But he remained where he was, as her voice rang through the quiet to him.

"You've never been loved, have you?"

Oh, she had cut right to the quick.  The old, inflamed wound that had never fully healed, but had instead been allowed to fester and ache, for hundreds of thousands of years, even as he had tried – again and again – to bury it beneath a cold and contemptuous and cruel exterior, cried out at her touch.

"You've never been loved at all.  All your life, she was training you to be her weapon of war – making you into who and what she wanted you to be.  But she never showed you love, did she?  She couldn't, and she wouldn't.  You were never told that love is the single greatest thing that anyone can ever know."

_It is true!  All of it is true – every part of it, down to the core!  I am floundering in the dark ocean, and I cannot escape it; why do hands not reach out to pull me from the depths that threaten to drag me down to death and eternal grief?_

And he rounded on her, eyes alit with passionate flame.

"Then _you_ show me, Princess – _you_ teach me."

She recoiled, as he knew that she would.

"Oh – no, Jaedin – not _me_!" she breathed, and whether the look on her face, in her eyes, was one of horror and revulsion, or something else entirely, he could not tell.  He only heard the echoing depths of his own bitterness and grief.  Once again, he had tried to show her just what he felt for her, and once again, she had refused him.  "I cannot—"

"Or you _will_ _not_," he interjected, caustically.  He held out both hands towards her, in a gesture that was as close to pleading as he would ever allow himself to come.  Before her, and her alone, would he reveal this much of himself.  To her alone would he bare his soul. 

"You have stirred things within me, Elowyn," he breathed, "You've changed me in ways that I had not thought possible, in ways I did not believe could exist – within _me_.  What I feel for you is deeper than anything else I have ever known."

She looked at him, and he felt himself stung by her pity.

"And you have known so much…" she murmured, softly.

He did not want her pity; if that was all she was willing to give him, then he might as well put an end to the charade, this endless dance of futile and wasted emotion, right as they stood.  He gave a short, cynical little bark of a laugh and bit off, "A lifetime of battles – of war – will do that."

Then he looked at her again, despairingly.

"Elowyn, don't you see?" he asked her. "I _need_ you.  Oh, I need you _so much_…"

That was all that she needed to hear.  

The final walls of her resistance, the fight of the light against the shadows, crumbled, and all she saw was him.  It did not matter whether he was of the Dark Realm and she was of the White; it did not count that they had, at one point, both hated and desired one another; _nothing_ mattered, now, except for him.  

And so she melted in a moment, as she stepped forward, murmuring to him…

"_Istver-ar, eran su aman_ …"

Jaedin knew, instantly, exactly what those words meant, and it only seemed to fuel the incredible, burning inferno of emotion inside of his chest even more, until he felt that he would burst if he did not have her in his arms that very second.  

And this he did.  He stepped forward, meeting her as she went to him, and in the blink of an eye, his arms were around her slender, lithe body, crushing her against him with a nearly bruising force, almost lifting her off of the ground as she clung to him.  

He began to kiss her again, and this time, she gave him her lips.  

Their embrace went on and on, until – suddenly – his sharp vampyre teeth nicked against her fine, soft skin.  They broke apart: she, unnerved by her sudden rush of feeling for him, and her reaction to their kiss, as he stood back, horrified.

"Blood…" 

He put out two fingertips, touching the tiny pinprick wounds that he had given to her, even as he had sought to give her proof of his adoration for her.  He went tense as he felt the single, small teardrop of blood that had slipped forth from her skin, and put all of his power into a burst of healing magic for her.

The wound disappeared, but his shock and remorse did not.  He looked at her, his eyes hollow and devoid of any emotion but grief and pain.

"Can I do _nothing_ but injure and torment you, Elowyn?"

She felt her throat becoming tight; she did not want to be out of his arms; when he was with her, she felt protected and warm, knowing that – dark, powerful, and capable of much deadly strength as he was – he would never use anything of himself against her, for he loved her.  She stepped forward, reaching out a hand to him.

"No; Jaedin, please—" she begged him.

At that moment, something very unexpected happened; he took his eyes off of her, freezing as he seemed to listen to something for a split second, and then he had grabbed her around the waist and was dragging them both out of sight of the windows nearby.  They fell against the wall, with her pillowed against his chest.  

Even as she had spoken to him, he had become aware of an unwanted presence.  Upon listening to his finely-honed vampyric senses, he had learnt that Robbie and Sala had left their chambers, and gone in search of Elowyn, not having trusted Jaedin to behave with courtesy to her.  

As he looked out of the window that was located a little ways down the wall from them, he caught sight of them.  They were several levels below on the ship, and seemed bent on finding their friend, their precious princess, no matter what this newest violation of his commands would cost them.

The horror of the moment before had been brushed past them; Jaedin now turned his head aside, looking away from the window, and glanced down at the beautiful little prize that he had with him.  She was so tiny, next to him – so small that he looked down fully onto the top of her head when he turned towards her.  And yet he knew that she was also tall and athletic, strong and capable of both speed and grace.

"So…" he hissed, softly. "It appears that your friends have come looking for you, Princess." 

Then, on the whim of the moment, he dropped the level of his chin, until it came to rest upon the crown of her head; he moved his own head slightly, rubbing his cheek against her silky pale gold hair.  Elowyn remained motionless in his arms. 

"Do you think they know where we are?"

Elowyn shook her head, disconcerted by the abrupt changes that had just gone by them in the past few seconds.  But…she wasn't entirely unwilling to remain exactly where she was.  When she leaned her head slightly to the side, her cheek came to rest against the warm white velvet on his chest, and she could hear and feel him breathing.  Yes indeed, she wasn't about to run away now.

Not after everything that had happened to them…

"No…" she said, her voice low and thoughtful. "They will look elsewhere.  They do not know."

She heard him make a sound of contentment, a rumbling noise that was almost like the purr of some gigantic cat, deep within his chest: his way of showing pleasure at the truth of her words.  His arms shifted around her, settling them both into a more or less comfortable position, as they remained there, leaning against the wall together.

"Then we are truly alone, are we not?"

And now he turned her around in his arms and gazed into her eyes for a moment.  There was a grief hundreds of thousands of years old lying within those vivid gray depths, and she well knew it.  But then he had raised his hand to the side of her face again, and was smiling into her eyes, softly and sadly.

_Where was the Dark Lord of old…?_

Surely, this could not be Jaedin: _Ríth-Anstarinaor_ of Sytherria.

Yet…she knew in her heart…it was.  For she could give her heart to none other.

"Go back to your friends, Princess Elowyn," he told her, gently. "They will protect you tonight from creatures such as me.  You should not remain here, in my shadows, with me.  You need not remain here.  Go."

He released her, tried to make her step away from him, but she grabbed the hand with which he did this in both of her own hands, seizing it with such a fierce and sudden determination that he abruptly stopped, staring at her.  As he stood there, unable to speak, she gathered his hand close to her, and pulled herself close to him again, until they were touching: her skirts whispering about both her legs and his.  

Looking up into his eyes, she said to him, "You told me once that you can love – even a Dark Lord can love.  Jaedin, I believe you now.  I _believe_ you."

Then, suddenly, she had crumbled against him, burying her face in his chest, clinging to him once again as if he was all that was there to hold her up, to keep her from falling.  Utterly dependent upon him.  She seemed close to tears as she said, desperately, "Don't tell me to go, Jaedin – please don't tell me to go.  Please let me stay."

Jaedin was still too shocked to say a word.

In all of the time that he had known the Princess, he had wanted for things to be this way between them.  He had dreamt, long and vividly, of the moment when she would _finally_ let him hold her, when she would respond with an ardency matching his to their kisses, when she would simply let herself be his.  And now she was: she had told him that she believed him capable of love, even that she trusted him.  She _did_ trust him!  Otherwise, why would she be here, like this, with him?  She trusted him, and…

He balked at that thought.

Perhaps that was asking too much of the fair Child of Prophecy, as of yet.  There were still walls for them to surmount.

With a hesitant, borderline uncertain tenderness, he put his arms about her again, holding her close to him as she nuzzled herself closer to him, her own arms draped with a vehement warmth about his waist, pulling him to her.  This was far from the first time that he had held her, but it was without a doubt that he had held her_ in this way_.  

His mind began to wander off onto other paths.

When he had first seen her, in the gardens as she ran about: laughing and playing with her friends, he had taken note of her extraordinary beauty, and felt his cold heart warmed – to such a small degree that he had almost not noticed it – but the damage was done.  By the time that he had ridden up behind her, gathered her unconscious body into his arms and then ridden off with her, he had already begun to be dangerously attracted to the princess: to this child of the light.  

Zaschaea had warned him, time and time again, about the faeries' wiles; she had poured the acid of her stories about the devastation of his family, of their bloody and violent deaths, into his ears over the many years he had been her servant.  She had fueled his bitter rage against the White Realm and all of its allies until he had nothing but hate for them, until he wanted nothing but their complete obliteration from the face of Evyrworld, and its history as a whole.  

Then he had seen Elowyn, and he had known that his heart was lost, if indeed he had such a thing within him.  To allow himself to love her – to entertain thoughts of spending an eternity with her, even if she was to forever remain his unwilling prisoner – was to turn against the Queen herself, who had ordered him to bring the girl to the Black City, where her fate awaited her.

To give her his heart meant to turn against his sovereign, and – in essence – to sign his own death warrant.

He could fight back, he had reasoned, as he held Elowyn prisoner in the Tower of Adamant, some miles outside of _Dranthiris-Ankhar_.  He could either reason with the Queen until she no longer saw the need for the maiden's death, and let Elowyn remain with him, a quelled threat; he could do this, or he would oppose her until she gave in.  He was not without his own resources, and even the Queen feared him as an enemy.  

It was not impossible.  To the contrary, it was quite doable.

But he had been wrong.

Elowyn was almost as allured by him as he was her, and she could sense, on some level, the same things that he did – they were joined by an unbreakable bond, and somehow, Fate had destined them for anything but separation from one another.  But she would not let herself love him while he remained a Dark Lord.  She hated everything that he was, everything that he represented.

And while she was willing to forgive him for wrongs he had done against her as an individual, she would not so easily forget his servitude to the Dark Realm.

What now could he do?  She trusted him – she wouldn't let go of him, nor would he let go of her.  Together, they might stand against the world.

He couldn't ask her to do that.

Jaedin turned his head, still receiving the sense that Robbie and Sala were out searching for Elowyn.  Turning aside from his musings for the moment, he briefly took the time to conjure a double of himself, and had it inform the pair of faeries that they must now return to their quarters for the night.  Where Elowyn was happened to be his and her concern alone, not theirs.  

He vaguely sensed that they gave argument, and had his double argue back, and eventually summoned the Antari to escort the two back to their rooms.  When he had done with this, he looked down at Elowyn again, about to speak.

Then he saw that she was asleep.

As they stood there, against the wall, together, she had left the world of consciousness and fallen deep into slumber; now, he realized, it was probably more like swooned, for he marked the utter exhaustion in her frame, and the trail of a single tear that had coursed down her face some time before.  He felt immediate chagrin – she had wept herself to sleep, and all in silence.

Now he had to decide what would be best to do.  Finally, he settled on the option of carrying her to her room, and leaving her there for the night.  

Gently, with infinite care, he stooped, putting an arm around the back of her knees and lifting her from the ground.  But as he moved towards the door of the room, Elowyn stirred within his embrace, making a noise that almost sounded as if it was a whimper.

He couldn't leave her alone, like this.

Compassion was not a concept that he, the Dark Lord, was familiar with; thus it was that he could not really put a name to the emotion that was coursing through him right now, but he knew well enough that he felt it, and that was enough.  He carried her across the room, to the mound of pillows that she had seen before.  

Without disturbing her, he lowered the both of them to the ground, reclining against their ornate silken depths.  Idly, his fingers went to run themselves through her pale hair, as he began to think again, warmed by the way that she had snuggled against him.

He could not ask her to choose a lifetime with him over her world – although he had never known his own family, having been too young to remember them when they had been taken from him, he was well aware of the bond that his princess shared with her loved ones.  He had seen the way that she had interacted with the elves in Iordania: Prince Skye and Princess Odessa-Gadriel, even the little elfling named Shelby.  He could sense her deep love and devotion for her near family – her mother, the lady of the faeries, and her father, Orandor Raven-Helm, whom Jaedin himself had once fought against.

She would never leave them for him, and they would never accept him – not after all that he had done against them.

And he knew perfectly well that he would not have deserved such a kindness, even if they had been willing to extend it to him.

But now he had no reason to remain in the Dark Realm's service.  True, he had long accustomed himself to the ways of evil, to the darkness; he had been one of its greatest and foremost proponents.  This had been because of what the Queen had told him, however – he had only made the decision to become one with the darkness because she had lied to him, telling him that his family had been murdered by the faeries.  She had taken his memory from him, causing him to forget all of the years of agony, struggle, torment, and mockery that he had endured under her.  He had fought against the White Realm because he had thought that that was what was right.

This was no longer so.

Now he was simply the lord of a country – despised by his subjects, catered to by his base and debauched court.  He was surrounded on every side by enemies…except for Elowyn.  But even _she_ could not defeat his troubles.  She could not take on his battles for him, nor would he ask her to.  There had to be some way that he could win the world's forgiveness…

Time was running short.  Even now, he sensed that the Queen was on the move.  The Antari had informed him that they had been keeping a careful watch on the Black City, and all of the remaining Dark Gates, in his absence, and now armies of hundreds of thousands were pouring out of the Ebony Queen's lands.  

War was coming, and she would soon be ready to attack the White Realm, and all of its allies.  It mattered not, now, whether she had succeeded in her plan to destroy the one who had been fated to make an end of all evil.  The Queen would make one last, horrific strike against her enemies, and the world would fall, if nothing were done to stop her.

But there was more to the prophecy of World's End than even Zaschaea, the Ebony Queen knew.  Jaedin remembered its words—

_One raven's feather,_

_Black as the night;_

_A single white opal,_

_Shedding beams of its light;_

_A tongue of red flame,_

_Burning brightly and true;_

_A teardrop of crystal,_

_Purest in hue._

_All bound together in one great crest,_

_But two must join above all the rest._

_Raven and white are destined to blend – _

_With light, good shall prosper,_

_And evil will end._

But this was not all of the prophecy, as Orandor himself had noted – at a meeting between the heads of the White Realm that had occurred seeming lifetimes before, and Jaedin had not known of it.  Indeed, far from it.  Jaedin himself knew of the rest of it, which was the part that the Queen was aware of, and he as well.

_Ris'n from time long before,_

_The Dark One shall be first to open the door:_

_Sharing a mark with she who is of Light,_

_To whom he is bound by all that is right._

_By this they shall be known,_

_And naught else that will come –_

_Lovers, rescuers, they shall be, when all else is flown._

It was easy enough, now, to guess at what that prophecy had meant.  The raven's feather, the Dark One – that was Jaedin himself.  The white opal, filled with light and radiance, the one who was of the Light itself – this was Elowyn, he had no doubt.  The others mentioned – the red flame, the crystal teardrop – were Robbie and Sala.  All four of them had joined together for the quest, but in the end, it seemed, it was only Jaedin and Elowyn who could somehow bring the prophecy to fulfillment.  

That was why the Queen had slain his family, and taken him captive.  

She had been trying to avoid the consummation of the prophecy's threat to the Dark Realm; she had thought that if she could turn one half of the pair who would destroy all evil in the world to the darkness herself, then the prophecy would never be able to come to pass.

But she had not counted on his ever falling in love with Elowyn.

Even turning him to evil had not proven enough for her.  After thousands of years of waiting, Zaschaea had grown impatient, and anxious.  What if she had not done enough?  And so she had tried to have Elowyn – the other person named in the prophecy as the bringer of the Dark Realm's doom – brought into the Black City, there to be killed.

Again, the prophecy could not be thwarted.

_What the Fates had decreed could not be denied… _

Jaedin was not certain how he and Elowyn could defeat the Dark Realm, nor did he know of this 'mark' that they were supposed to share.  

As an adamant foe of the White Realm for the greater part of his life, he had never heeded the worship of its deities, and so he had never applied himself to beseeching the Fates or even the Three for their guidance, although he knew of them all.  Elowyn, he knew, was familiar with this, and it seemed that this was how she had kept herself from going mad in the most desperate times.  

He did not know now if he could so suddenly change himself; he had lived the millennia of his life in hatred and evil – was it possible that he could attain forgiveness, turn from the darkness, so quickly?  Even if he _could_ be pardoned for everything that he had done…  

Could he change the darkness within himself?

So, here they stood: at a crossroads of destiny.  He and Elowyn had finally met, finding their way to one another by turn after turn of mysterious fate, and now they had the ancient, unforgettable prophecy before them.

And time was running out.

Zaschaea was slowly chipping away at his life essence; he could feel the great weariness that comes from the death of the soul growing upon him day by day.  If he did not soon reach the Black City and somehow reclaim his soul for himself, then he would soon be faced with death.  

He could not speak of this to Elowyn.  Soon enough, he would reveal what he knew of the prophecy to her – of the answers behind its riddle – but he could not reveal to her the threat on his own life.  She would feel, he was certain, compelled to save him, to do anything that would keep him from being taken from her.  He wanted to do much of the same himself; the thought of being separated from her by death was more than chilling.  

It was _unbearable_.

Looking down, he gazed longingly at Elowyn's soft, beautiful profile.  Her cheeks were flushed rosily with warmth, and her long, dark lashes rested gently closed over her enthralling green eyes.  He wondered what would happen when she awakened.

He glanced out the window, briefly taking his eyes from her.  

Already, morning approached, and when daylight had fully come upon them, he would reveal to each of the faeries the plan that he had kept hidden from them thus far – aboard the _Apocalypse_, they would travel the rest of the way to the Dark Gate.  This way, their journey would be cut almost in half as far as time went, which was a very good thing considering how much time they had already lost between the Silver City and his illness.  They would also avoid the massing armies of Skullex and other Dark Realm creatures that the Queen was now preparing to send out into the lands beyond her own.

But not until then would he bestir himself to move.  Until then, he would remain here: with his princess sleeping in his arms.

And he could not imagine a scenario that would cause him greater bliss.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  *sighs*  There, you see?  I told you I'd get them together.  (One way or another.)  Last chapter in the update for now – r&r, and I will do all I can to get some more out soon!  And now I must go and keep Shinzon, Jaedin, and Bellerephon from calling up Darth Vader and Morgoth, and adding them to the list of challengers in their Villains' Grand Duel.  

*runs off, shouting: Bellerephon!  You put that phone down _now_ or so help me I'll have both Xena _and_ your mother over here in a minute to deal with you!  Shinzon, don't make me break out the Barbie dolls – and Jaedin, I _know_ that _you_ are at the head of this, _give me the flipping phone_!*   

@{--------------------------------------  


	32. Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Twenty-Nine –

Dawn Over Sytherria

The next morning, Elowyn awakened: in her own bed, in her silent room.  She didn't open her eyes right away.  It seemed, as she slowly drifted back into consciousness, that she had had the most lovely dreams ever during the entire night before, but she couldn't exactly recall what they had entailed.  A slight, curving smile etching onto her lips, she stirred, gradually stretching her body underneath the sheets.

When her hand reached out and touched the top of the mattress beside her, she felt that it was slightly warm – as if someone had just been sitting there.  This made her open her eyes; as she did so, she took in her surroundings, and remembered all.

She'd fallen asleep in the arms of the Dark Lord the night before, and he had held her, all through those long hours.  From what she could tell, he had only just brought her back to her room.  As she thought about it, she recalled hearing the faint noise of the door closing, even as she'd slept.  Yes, he had only just left her, moments before.  She ran her hand over the place where he had just been, taking comfort in the warmth there.  How strong and reassuring his embrace had been…

No longer was her mind occupied with thoughts of how, or if, why, or when.  All she knew now was that she was at a greater level of peace than she had been in for quite some time, and it was all because of Jaedin.  They had found their way to one another, and no matter what the future held for them – no matter how many or what kind of questions – they would somehow find the answers, and the end, together.

She turned her head a bit, and looked out the window.  

The curtains of her forest-themed room were a mixture of evergreen and sage velvet, with slender hangings of silvery green and yellow-green silk to break the heaviness of the other material.  Through them peeked a ray of light, here and there.  She sat up, hearing the chink of ornamental and jewel-accented golden chains as she moved, and threw her coverings aside, swinging her feet to the floor as she fairly bounced out of the bed.  

She still wore her gown from the night before; it was surprising how comfortable it was.  It felt as if she'd slept in a loose-fitting cotton shift.  Her jewelry and headpiece had been removed, however, which she was thankful for.

Upon her throwing open of the curtains, the full-blown, heedless majesty of a sunrise over the desert greeted her.

For as far as her eyes could see, there was nothing but smoothly rolling dunes: tainted by the light of the rising sun to a glimmering, toasty golden-brown that reminded her of copper and almonds.  The shadows that marked their undulations had a faint hue of amethyst purple to them, making a vivid contrast against the glittering sand.  At the horizon, the gigantic sphere of the sun seemed to have been transformed from its usual white-hot self into a much more exotic, much more sensual inhabitant of the heavens: bathed in a shade of rosy coral, reminiscent of pomegranate juice and pigeon's-blood rubies.  The sky beyond it held an even wider array of colours – yellow so bright that it hurt her eyes to look at it, a deep, vibrant blue, indigo, tangerine, and so many more…

It simply took her breath away.

How could anyone not see the beauty of this place, once they had truly looked upon it?  Her eyes could very well be deemed biased, for she had seen many beauties in the course of her young life – indeed, she had been raised in the flawless White Realm itself, at the court of legendary Avalennon! – but now she simply had no words for what she saw.

At length, she finally turned around, facing into the room again.  

Now her eyes lit upon a new beauty: a gorgeous white gown, which had been left draped delicately, by careful hands, over the back of her gracefully curved chaise lounge.  She went over to it and picked it up by its shoulders, as was her wont when dealing with her former fashion foes.

The jade green eyes of the Princess who had once been so opposed to even looking at a dress, much less considering wearing one, now roved over the newcomer with a calculating, appraising air.  It was of pure white material, having a feel that she couldn't quite put a name to – it wasn't velvet, and it wasn't silk either; nor was it satin, but something of all three, mixed inexplicably together.  But, no matter how this had been done, it was very, very soft, and very, very luxurious as she ran her fingers over it.  She quickly took note of its main characteristics – a full skirt, not quite to the standard ballroom circumference, but voluminous enough at that; sleeves that were tight until just above the elbow, then plunged down to the wearer's wrist-length, the hems edged with fine white lace; an off-the-shoulder neckline.

_Jaedin,_ she thought, wryly, _what_ is_ your preoccupation with my shoulders about?_

The skirt and bodice had been liberally dosed with embroidery, and there was a fair share of pale-toned jewels – diamonds, pearls, and their sort – scattered everywhere; enough to give evidence of the wearer's status, but not enough to bedazzle the eyes of anyone who looked upon it.  She now saw that a pair of tiny white slippers and a lovely crystal and pearl necklace had been laid out with the gown, hidden underneath it until the current moment.

And a note had been left pinned to the back of the gown.

Elowyn took it in one hand, and opened it.

Her alert, cool eyes ran swiftly over the sharp, proud, but overall elegant black script written on the delicate cream-coloured vellum:  _In hopes of what may yet come,_ it read.  The words were simple, but their meaning was so much more intricate.  Elowyn smiled to herself, smiled at the sly wit and implications from the one who loved her.

Evidently, he'd not had any second thoughts about their kiss the night before, either.

Now Elowyn hastily laid the gown back over the arm of the chaise lounge, and ran into the washroom that was conjoined to her bedchamber.  It seemed as if her hands and feet flew – she splashed the cold lotus-scented water from the marble basin onto her face, neck, collar bones, and arms; ran her fingers abstractedly through the wild, wavy golden tendrils of her hair, and then dashed out of the room again, back into her room.  

There, she undid the laces at the back of her blue silk gown, careful not to disturb any of the meticulously-applied golden accents, and hung it up in the wardrobe that had been artfully concealed in a panel of the frescoed wall.  Two quick steps, and she was at her dressing table, where she swept a light dusting of shimmering white powder onto her eyelids, brushed a bit of apricot-hued blush onto the apples of her cheekbones – even though she didn't really need it, for her cheeks were flushed rosily enough as it was – and applied a subtle dab of glossy raspberry-hued rouge to her lips.  

Nearly dancing with restlessness, she fastened the necklace around her neck, put on her earrings, and arranged her hair, pulling it back away from her face and securing it with a hair band that gently cupped the back of her head, just a little ways above her neck.  Finally, she fought her way through the cloud of white fluffiness that was the gown and its petticoats, which seemed to have no limit as far as the number of layers, and fastened up the pearl buttons on its back.  

Her feet slipped quickly into the low-heeled shoes, and then she was off: sailing across the room like a shining star that had fallen from the heavens, to the door that she pushed open, passed by, and closed behind herself.

The chamber that was directly beyond the quartet of suites that had been given to the faeries by the Dark Lord was silent, and devoid of any life.  Elowyn took note of a new addition to the large, black onyx table that had been let there – an enormous, sweet-smelling confection of fern fronds, gardenias, lily-of-the-valley, and white roses.

Another _present_, from her passionate admirer.

Elowyn smiled, as a slight blush rose to her cheeks, and reached out, removing one of the gardenias from its place in the arrangement, to tuck it into the allowing waistband of her gown.  Its fragrance washed over her, careless in its supreme refreshing perfume, and drifted along with her as she moved across the floor, towards the door that would lead her out into the ship's further regions.  The slippers that she wore upon her feet made no noise whatsoever, which she was thankful for.

One day, very soon, she would explain to her friends all that had transpired between her soul and that of the Dark Lord, but that day, she knew, was not today.

And besides, they wouldn't want to wake up at such an unholy hour anyway…

*                       *                       *

Elowyn had never before seen anything like the _Apocalypse_, and so it would have been surprising to anyone – including all those who knew her best – that she was now finding her way around the titanic vessel with such ease.   But, then again, they would have also been discounting the fact that she now felt and acknowledged, openly, the link between her mind, and that of her suitor.  Jaedin's magnetic presence drew her to him, and so she passed easily through the halls of the glider ship, slowly finding her way to the command room.

The two Antari who stood guard before the doors of that chamber made their surprise at her approach known by the slight raising of their eyebrows as she appeared before them.  Then, the door that they stood in front of opened, and Rákkhed Dahk-Marr stepped outside of it.  

Immediately, his dark eyes took note of her presence, and he smiled openly at her, visibly pleased that she had come.  Then he gestured, with a mollifying movement of one hand, to the pair of guards, who had stood at attention when he had appeared.  

"His Lordship expects the Princess," he told them, in his gently musical, tenor voice: his slight accent dipping over certain syllables and slightly rolling the R's. 

"He is awaiting her." 

Immediately, when they had heard this news, the two stood back, bowing their heads as they gracefully held their long, bladed spears out of the doorway, allowing enough room for someone to pass beneath them.  Rákkhed turned slightly, angling himself so that he could return into the room beyond those doors, and beckoned to Elowyn, still smiling congenially.  

The captain of the Antari had a pleasant and good-humored nature, she thought: she knew that he could be stern and incapable of mercy or relent when the occasion arose for such displays of will, but she also recognized the depths of solid, kind empathy within his strong features.  Here was a man who could be trusted, who would prove himself to be the best of friends and greatest of allies – and also the worst of enemies to those who might threaten the one he served.

And now he was speaking to her.

"Come, Princess Elowyn," he told her, with a warm reassuring tone in his voice. "My lord has long anticipated your arrival, and I fear that he grows impatient with waiting as the hours wear on.  I hope that you will be able to forgive his…" 

Rákkhed trailed off, with seeming uncertainty, as he obviously tried to find the word he was looking for.  Finally, he finished with, "_Impetuosity_."

Elowyn sent him one of her brightest beams of smiles, and let him give her his arm; she lightly laid her fingertips along his inner wrist, and then the captain of the guard gallantly escorted her past the pair of sentries at the door, who bowed to her again as they swept past.  

The sight that met her was yet another wonder, even amidst this veritable floating fortress of strange and new fineries.  She stood in front of the door, with Rákkhed at her side, who grinned knowingly to himself as the princess's eyes traveled, slowly and fixatedly, over the intricate panels that controlled the glider ship's functions, the wall of diamond-glass windows and the scenery beyond them, and – lastly – the sharply-contoured, almost throne-like chair that was in the very center of the area.

It took scarcely any imagination to guess who was seated there.

Elowyn glanced out of the corner of her eye at Rákkhed, as if for permission to act, and he nodded to her.  The various Antari paused at their stations as the beautiful faery princess placed one hand on the banister of the stairway and then silently walked down the steps, approaching the command seat.  She paused, coming to stand only a little more than a foot behind the chair and its occupant, her expression sliding into one of cool amusement as her eyes now looked over him.

Jaedin, for having spent the entire night awake: holding her as she slept, certainly looked none the worse for wear.  

He had exchanged his white velvet tunic for one of black silk that was nonetheless dramatic: its shoulders were slightly padded, winging out to curve over the sleeves, which were closely cut to his arms; this outfit gave an all-over sleek, tailored look to him, down to his form-fitting breeches – which were either leather or something close to it – and boots.  Today, he wore no cloak, and was currently slouched carelessly in his throne, fingers in steeple-position, legs bent slightly at the knee: the heels of his boots supported by the nether regions of the chair.

She let her gaze center on the back of his neck, right where it met his smoothly shaven skull, and she found herself wondering if the incredible, oven-like heat of Sytherria's deserts was why he found it more convenient to not have any hair than to elect for a more normal appearance.  Not that she would have had him look any other way – it was all part of his magnetism, she realized: the vast amount of difference in him that had drawn her to him, to the point where she could not and would not escape his loving advances, even in the face of everything else.

Right at the moment, he seemed sunk in thought: expecting her or not, he was completely unaware of her presence right behind him.  

_Well – look at this.  Who would have imagined the Dark Lord so distracted?_ she thought to herself, in pseudo-mockery.  _And who has plunged him into this state?_

Even as these thoughts ran quickly through her head, she sensed that he had finally become aware of her.  She watched, then, as the head turned, with a slow, easy grace, upon its long neck: the body itself following the movement, at last raising him to his full height as he faced her.  She remained where she was, one hand on the banister.  

She still felt so uncertain – so small and pathetic amidst such great, enormous wonders, and especially next to events such as those that surrounded her.

But when she looked into the gray eyes of he who stood before her, devouring her with his ardent gaze, she felt tall as a goddess.

"Princess!" he greeted her, as his utterly charming and very dazzlingly white smile came onto his face in all its glory.  His voice rang captivating, resonant, and commanding in the large chamber, filling it with his arresting presence, and she felt a shiver, a little frisson of some indefinable thrilling emotion, run over her, even as she stood.  

He stepped smoothly, with a confident elegance, around the chair and came towards her, his predator's eyes boring into her mind.  He did not look away.

Elowyn waited until he was standing right in front of her; then, she dropped her gaze from his proud, handsome face: unable to bear the full sight of the powerful, heated flames of the magnetism that was in his silvery eyes.  Jaedin smiled, softly, and she saw his hands leave his sides, moving up so that the fingers of one – ungloved, which greatly surprised her – came to gently prop themselves under her chin, drawing her head up and up until she looked into his eyes again. 

This time, she took his gaze fully.

"Good morning!  I was hoping that you would join me."

Then Jaedin smiled down into his beloved's ravishingly fair face, taking note of her many peerless features, her bright green eyes, the crystal and pearl necklace that she wore, the delicate whiteness of her gown – which he himself had had created, specifically for her – and the blooming gardenia that she wore at her waist.  He then placed his other hand, which he had kept free, around her: just above the rush of material that composed the train of the gown, which fell from her softly curving hips to the ground.  

Without a word or even asking permission to do so, he drew her close to him, and let her place her hands on his chest, in between them, as he gazed fondly down upon her.

If there was any question in her heart, he mentally told her, with the ardent tenderness of any true lover, of what he now felt for her – of what the words that they had spoken to one another the night before had meant, their kiss had sealed it.  His heart belonged to her, and no one else; and so long as he lived, so long as his soul was in existence, nothing would ever again conspire to change that.

He hoped that she felt the same?

Elowyn's eyes, then, at that moment, reminded him of both the night sky, filled with the beauty of a sudden, unexpected rain of falling stars, and a meadow in which the yellow-gold shards of the warm sunlight and the vibrant, spring-green grass danced to the symphony of the breeze.  He knew that he needn't have even asked that question.

"Jaedin, how unfair can you _be_?" she asked him, her voice lilting with her light, breathy laughter.

Oh, that clinched it – and he would have taken her in his arms right then and kissed her with all of the passion that he had long felt in regard to her, through all those long days and weeks, but reason and, he dared remind himself, _propriety_ remained.  So instead he simply bent his head down and brushed a polite and certainly charming little kiss on her forehead…

But as he made as if to move back, he let his lips slide up a bit – coming dangerously close to her hairline – and Elowyn felt the breath catch in her throat as she fought to restrain her impulse to kiss _him_, to claim those full velvet lips as her own, once again, as she had before.  Jaedin's hands upon her waist were keenly aware of her reaction to his daring little gesture, and he only just kept himself from grinning in open satisfaction and pleasure at that.  

However, he knew – as she did – that he couldn't stoop to embracing her fully right there, in front of all of his men; he had done it before, when they had had their conversation in his drawing room at _Dranthiris-Ankhar_, after he had dragged her out of the dark ball, but now things were different.  The first time, it had only been a given few who had witnessed their kiss, and they had been bound to silence.  

Now, if they were to see their master and the faery princess whom he held 'captive' aboard his warship in a heartfelt embrace…well, tongues _would_ wag.  

Even among the solemnly inclined Antari.

And Jaedin hated to think of the two of them as the subject of discussions.

More than this, though, there was the difference between those two separate occasions.  Their first kiss – well, it was actually their second, now that he recalled it correctly – had been a result of his last-ditch attempt to woo her, to enchant her into agreeing to love him, and forever after remain with him in his palace, as his queen.  Then, he had had other motivations, other emotions, other aspirations and reasoning.

Now, though…

He stood back, although his hands never left their positions on her waist, and a fiery blush kindled Elowyn's maidenly cheeks.  Jaedin looked at her for long; unable to take his gaze away from her or wipe off the idiotic, love-stricken smile that he knew he had on his face.  

Now, things were different.  He wasn't quite sure of where they were going – he no longer served the Ebony Queen, he had not served her for quite some time, and really, nothing existed that held him to his fealty to the Dark Realm.  If he had joined it in response to his family's murder, as a means of avenging himself against the White Realm, that reason was gone now.  The White Realm had not slain his family; the Dark Realm had.  And revenge, he now saw, was hardly the greatest, most noble basis for living.  Certainly not for action.

Did that make him one of the 'heroes' of their tale now?

He couldn't see it as being that way.  Elowyn and his elite guardsmen were the only beings in the world that saw him as anything but a villain, a debased and corrupt figure who could not be trusted, and could not hope to be anything but evil.  He himself knew that even another five hundred thousand years would not serve to undo the great wrongs that he had done, even if he had been…mistaken…in his behavior.

So what could he do?

He would do the only thing that he _could_ do – the war was coming, and it appeared that he had now come upon the chance to jump sides, to cross over the chasm that separated good from evil, light from darkness.  A shadow would now come to join the shimmering light.  Elowyn stood on the other side of that chasm, and he would join her, to stand beside her, if it took everything of him to do so.  In the face of the ultimate battle of the powers of the Dark Realm and the White, he might be able to do some good – to at least _begin_ to make an attempt at atoning for his many great and terrible wrongs.  They might never forgive him: the faeries, the elves, the mortals…even the other vampyres.  He would still be the Dark Lord; he would still be the master of the shadows, the Big Bad Wolf.

But as he looked into Elowyn's eyes, he knew that only one thing really mattered; everything else could fall around him, but that one thing would be ever with him—

_She_ mattered.  And _she_ would not leave him.

*                       *                       *

And so now he took her arm, weaving it with his, and grinned in his most electrifying, charismatic and debonair manner.  

"We have, I think, about two hours longer before your friends awaken and desire to see you," he said; he began to walk, leading them both up out of the command room, towards the other chambers in the ship. "But I thought that, perhaps, Princess, you would not find a short walk around your current abode _entirely_ distasteful."

Elowyn beamed up at him, her expression equally compelling.

"If _you_ would be the one who is my guide, I would be most delighted."

"Princess, you are _too_ kind," he murmured, in a low, playful tone, as they came up off of the last step in the stairway and approached the doors that led out of the command room.  The duo of Antari guardsmen who stood there once again held their spear points out of the way, allowing their master and his beautiful companion to pass through, and Jaedin directed them on a course that took them along the glider ship's outermost corridors.  

All of these were lined on one side with windows that displayed the glorious early morning landscape of the Sytherrian desert.  Soon enough, Elowyn discovered that not all of the _Apocalypse_ was composed of black onyx and metal, and not all of it was totally shrouded in shadows.  Of course, the shadows provided a comfortable respite from the heated rays of the sun, which were already glaring even only a little while after dawn, and she was thankful for their presence.  

Here and there, along the way, the look of the ship would change a bit.  Now it would alter, from black and silver, to a daring scarlet and creamy white, with even the floor swirled in those garish colours.  Now it was jewel tones: emerald, sapphire, amethyst, and deep ruby, which seemed to gleam together into a solid black, and then separate at the blink of an eye.  More depictions of noble, predatory-looking dragons she saw, and more displays of both artistry and practicality, although the more she surveyed of the place, the more she thought that Jaedin was less concerned with the practical side of things, and more interested in the aesthetic, and the flamboyant.  

She was scarcely surprised.  After all, he'd hardly shown any compunction about going to the extremes in the composition of _her_ fabulous room.

As they walked along, together – their hands having slipped down from being linked at the elbow to simply holding each other, fingers entwined – Jaedin looked at her carefully, trying to gauge her expression.  Elowyn seemed content, even overtly happy that it was _he_ who walked at her side, that it was _he_ who held her hand…but he sensed a flicker of restlessness, of wonderment and unease, in her air.  

Well, he could guess very well at why _that_ was.

They came upon an elegant, smoothly curved alcove in the hallway just then: within it was held a rare example of the Dark Lord's more…thoughtful tendencies.  Lining its walls were a host of plants – flowers, small trees, and a few bushes here and there – and there was even a finely-sculpted fountain within it as well, its music faint and sweet in the silence of the ship's corridor.  

Here, Jaedin released Elowyn's hand and guided her into the bench that was there, letting her take a seat as he remained standing.  As she bent slightly to adjust the skirt of her gown, he suddenly spoke.

"I was planning on waiting to tell you of this until later this morning, when your friends have finally come to join us," he said, putting hardly veiled emphasis on the word 'finally', although they both knew that he would much prefer it to be only they two. "But I fear that you are unhappy with me, and I cannot bear _that_."

Elowyn's eyes looked up, startled and – he noted – just a bit frightened.

"Unhappy with you?" she echoed. "_No_.  How _could_ I be?  What could give you cause to think that I might be able to find reason to be unhappy with you?  Tell me and I shall do anything I can to dispel it…"

But she trailed off as he raised one long, graceful hand: signaling for her to put her protests at an end.  He stepped towards her, slightly, as he replied.

"Elowyn."

He said her name with the tone of a parent who has heard his child lie, and then attempt to cover it up: pathetically and half-heartedly, of course, so that he knows that an untruth has been uttered.  She immediately shut her mouth, and sat back on the bench, seeming to shrink away from him, almost.  He regretted all of the time he had spent in making her fear him – perhaps without meaning to, but doing so nevertheless.

Quickly and without sound, he seated himself beside her, taking both of her hands in his so that she could not bolt away.  Looking deeply into her eyes, he gathered his words – the words that he knew he had to say.

"Don't pretend to me that now, because you have acknowledged your feelings for me – which, I assure you, are mutually reciprocated, and requited – you don't fear me.  I know you do.  Much as I regret it, you do."

He was silent for a moment, and then continued.

"I also know that nothing I can do will make my past wrongs right, even in a lifetime…but I would at _least_ like to try.  I know that there is something that I can do to help – _not_ that I am asking you to give me a way to join the exalted ranks of the wise ones of your White Realm," he added, in a warning tone, as she seemed about to speak, and he tightened his grasp on her hands. "I cannot do this, and I am not so certain that it is what I desire.  But, a war _is_ to be fought, and I have determined to do what I can to assist the defeat of the one who names herself the Ebony Queen – the mistress of the Dark Realm.  Never before, you must understand, Elowyn, has anyone of her caliber risen from the depths of that place; she has demonstrated a strange and unique power to unite the warlords and rally the vast dark armies, and even _I_ fear what she may be capable of making them do.  She is not one to be trifled with.  However," he said, in a wry voice, "_I_ am also not one to be trifled with, and great as her power is, Zaschaea is too shrewd, to knowledgeable to forget that I pose a considerable threat to her – perhaps the largest."

"Jaedin, what should happen if she finds you?  Our hope would be gone."

He smiled, painfully, at her.

"Not quite, Princess – do you not remember the prophecy of World's End?  One raven's feather…" 

And he began to recite the words of the rhyming prophecy in a low voice, with a slow, deliberate cadence; Elowyn picked up on the lines and began to say it with him, and when they had done, Jaedin looked at her without emotion. 

"_You_ are hope – hope _itself_, Elowyn, my sweet white lily; while you remain alive, nothing the Dark Realm can do will keep you from fulfilling your end of the prophecy, and destroying it.  Zaschaea knew this, and that is why she tried to have me kidnap you, and then bring you to her.  She would have killed you."

"But _you_ stopped that from happening," she said. "_We_ stopped it."

"And doesn't it ring somewhat oddly to you that I, and no one else, would have shared that with you?" he asked, standing up. "One of your brothers, your friends, perhaps even your father, or someone that you did not know at all, might have easily done it…but the _Dark Lord_, the servant of the Ebony Queen, and your personal nemesis?" And he turned a smile that stated exactly this on her – a wicked grin that reminded her of all their previous fascinating conversations. "It has its own implications, Elowyn…"

She stood up as well, and grabbed both of his hands in hers.

"Jaedin, don't be evasive.  You tell me what this is about."

"Elowyn, we are bound by that prophecy.  Whether or not we knew about it for any given time in our lives, before and even after we met, it was there, all along, shaping our words, our thoughts, and actions…and our not knowing about it didn't make it any less real."

And then he told her of what he knew about the prophecy.  When he had done, Elowyn stared at him so sharply that he almost wondered if she had decided that he wasn't worth trusting, after all – that he wasn't worth wasting her time on.  But she sat down, instead, without a word.  After a moment's hesitation, he did the same, and at last, she spoke to him.

"It seems so impossible," she said, in a low voice. "_You_ have long been a powerful figure in history – history that I myself have learned about for any number of the years in my education.  You could easily be a member of this prophecy, someone who might be seen as a person who would change the world.  _You_ might know how it is to be done!  How am _I_ supposed to go about fulfilling my end of it all?  How am _I_ supposed to know?"

He reached out, put his hand on her bare shoulder, and waited for her to look at him.

"You're not _supposed_ to know, Elowyn," he told her, gently. "As, likewise, _I_ am not supposed to know, and we are not supposed to go about fulfilling it alone, either.  In the very end, we are meant to do it together, you and I."

" '_Lovers, rescuers_…' " she whispered, but neither of them discussed that aspect of the prophecy any further.  It was enough to have this newest concept on their minds.

Their relationship could be left to the shadows until later.

Finally, Jaedin sat back a bit, drawing away from her so that he could look, long and searchingly, into her eyes.  Elowyn looked back at him, without fright or resentment, but he _did_ note fear and uncertainty in her facial cast.  It was hard, learning to trust; it was hard, and they would both have to do it.

"Ah, Elowyn…" he said, pulling her back to him again and running his bare hands skillfully through her hair, almost putting her to sleep with their deft, warm caresses, "We were never meant to be apart for long – how _else_ do you think that it came to be that I forsook the Queen?  Only _you_ could have caused so great a sundering between a mistress as passionately served, and a knight as fallen as I."

"You put me to fault for _that_…" she muttered, and he restrained his temptation to laugh at her caustic little bit of humor. 

"Oh, I put you to fault for quite a few things, my precious little love," he said, and then he did laugh, in his soft, velvety way: deep in his throat.

Elowyn's mind convulsed when she heard him call her that.

_His love…_

She sat up, eyes narrowing and mouth quirking to one side. 

"Well, if _that_ was all that you wanted to say to me, Master Jaedin," she told him, archly; she stood and primly brushed her skirts back into place. "Then I suggest that you continue our walk for us, for I perceive that the hour is growing late, and I shall soon be turning my thoughts towards breakfast…not to what _you_ blame me for."

He rose to his feet again, and towered over her, which she didn't seem to appreciate.  "Be careful, Princess…" he breathed in her ear. "Or I shall have _you_ do the navigating around this vessel, and who knows where we will lose ourselves then.  We might _never_ make it to breakfast, if _that_ happens."

"We had _better_," she fired back.  

Then, as they took up their walk down the corridor again, leaving the peaceful alcove behind them, she eyed him skeptically.

"You know, I would almost be tempted to think, by the way that you said that, that you didn't really _want_ to go to breakfast.  Now why is this so?"

Jaedin would have flushed, if he had known how, and for a moment, he scowled in silence, striding along by her side.  Elowyn watched him, waiting.  

Finally, he ground out, moodily—

"I fear that your nephew is going to want to trounce me, once I've told him that the whole deal with 'capturing' you all and forcefully bringing you aboard my warship, and having him knocked out as well, was simply all part of a grand farce.  I never intended to make you my prisoners, Elowyn, as _you_ know full well, and we are still going to travel to the Dark Gate, and the Black City, but _they_ don't know it.  _He_ doesn't know it.  And I would like to delay my inevitable…comeuppance," He said the word as if it was very sour, and he would have very much liked to simply blast it into tiny bits, "For as long as is at all possible."

And he scowled again.

Elowyn could only throw her head back and laugh – the look on the Dark Lord's proud, handsome face was so utterly dour and cross, his eyebrows knit together: dark as thunderstorms, his jaw clenched and full lips pursed, as he contemplated the eventual punishment that he would receive at Robbie's hands.  

This only made Jaedin scowl even more, and he rasped at her, "You needn't show so much mirth at it, Princess.  It's not as if it would be the _first_ time he's managed to wallop me."

To this, Elowyn only laughed harder, recalling that Robbie had used the same word – 'walloped' – the night before, when speaking of how he'd been treated after the Antari had made their appearance, in the desert.  At length, Jaedin stopped them both, taking her arm at the elbow, and turned her to face him.  Now his face was totally devoid of all former resentment, and he looked, indeed, quite serious.

"Elowyn," he said, softly, and she felt the smile leave her face. "I would do _anything_ that I could to show you how much I rue my previous acts, both to you and the world as a whole; but I know that at least one of you two will never release me from the hatred you feel for me, and I deserve it.  My life…everything about me…" 

He seemed to be floundering for words, and it unnerved her a bit.  This, from the Dark Lord who had once been so completely terrifying in her eyes.  

And now, he was stumbling over his own words. 

"Everything was a _lie_.  The Queen took my family, my memory…but I do not use those as my excuse for my evil, for my cruelty and darkness.  Those were, to some extent, if not all, me.  I _let_ myself become the monster.  And now, I do not know if I will ever return to being the person I once was.  I might dream of it, I might think that I have attained that…but I do not know if it can be.  Elowyn…"

He pulled her close to him.

"Elowyn, I told you last night – _I need you_.  You are my only hope, as you are the world's only hope.  I knew that I had to have you in my life, come what may, all that seeming lifetime ago…but now I know so much more.  So much more, and so much less." 

His gray eyes seemed strangely bright to her, but she didn't know whether it was because the light was reflecting off of tears within them, or within her own eyes.  How was it that he brought to the surface such emotions within her? 

"I've been extremely roundabout with this, but I cannot, I _will_ _not_ evade the issue any longer…"

He drew a long, shuddering breath.

"Elowyn, can you forgive me?"

"Jaedin."

She whispered his name, so that only he could have heard it, and then she raised her hand to the side of his face, and gently brushed it across his fine, smooth skin.  Her eyes wandered across his features: glancing over the dark, curving eyebrows, the prominent nose and sculpted chin, the high forehead and shaven scalp, the full lips and the scar that marked them, and, last of all, the shimmering gray eyes.

It didn't take words; she didn't need to speak them.

She had only to say his name.

*                       *                       *__

"Orpheus!"

As Elowyn called out her beloved Pegasus's name, she let go of Jaedin's obliging hand and ran down the row of stalls towards the regal white head that hung itself out and nickered at her.  Within a moment, she had reached him and was pulling the noble creature's head down so that she could caress him lovingly.  Orpheus responded in kind, having greatly missed his young mistress in the hours since they had last parted.  

Jaedin, giving them their moment of reunion, slowly approached the pair.  Sensing the Dark Lord's presence, Orpheus made a disgruntled sound and bucked his head a bit, shifting on all fours as he eyed the tall, dark figure who had now come to stand beside the princess with an expression that would have been narrow and distrustful, had he possessed human-like features.  Elowyn frowned a bit at him, as Jaedin murmured—

"Still not too friendly then."

In response to this, Orpheus snapped his teeth a bit, and Elowyn shook her head, not quite sure where the Pegasus had come to have such a bad relationship with her companion – but guessing that their mutual animosity had come into play sometime either before or after the incident with the ranthar.  Jaedin merely put on a wry face.

"That horse is going to hate me until the end of eternity," he stated, taking a step back so that Orpheus no longer felt that both he and his mistress were threatened.  Orpheus still, however, continued to eye him warily.

Elowyn put up a hand to the crown of the Pegasus's head, her fingers lightly ruffling the mane between his pricked, alert ears.  Without taking her eyes off of him, she commented, "Well, you _might_ begin to make amends if you stopped calling him a horse.  He _isn't_, you know."

Jaedin gave a short, half-amused snort of laughter as he stepped across the wide walkway that the two rows of luxurious stalls – his own personal stables aboard the _Apocalypse_ – made.  Another horse was there: the magnificent, coal-black stallion that he had ridden in all of their journeys together.  Its eyes gleamed a startling array of colours – sometimes, they almost seemed garnet-red, other times, gold, and even sapphire and emerald, never once the same.  Jaedin ran his hand along the creature's neck, with a slow, deft expertness that told Elowyn he had no little experience in dealing with the equine race, in any of its forms.  Somehow, she doubted that his stallion was just a simple horse, even at that.  No everyday horse had eyes like that.

She turned back to Orpheus, however.

The stable was more than enough to make her eyebrows raise, on first sight.  The ship, she had seen, held many wonders, but a fully equipped and very fine stable?  She hadn't been able to imagine that.  But where else had she expected that he would have put their mounts?  It was actually quite predictable.  

The room was, as a whole, of a size that was in complete concordance with the rest of the warship; it was more long and wide than tall, although its ceiling did reach a height of what she estimated to be about twelve or thirteen feet.  Its floor was of cream-flecked white marble, inlaid with patterns of ruby- and jade-coloured stone, the pillars and waist-high walls that separated the individual stalls both of pure white marble and gleaming gold, with silk ropes hanging as a barrier between hallway and stall.  Orpheus could be comfortable either lying down or standing, she noticed, for the floor was strewn with both a layer of fine, golden sand and clean pale yellow hay.  He wore a satin blanket that was the exact same hue as his eyes.

At length, after taking note of all this, she turned around, away from Orpheus, intending to ask Jaedin something more about the ship; then, she noticed that he no longer stood by his stallion, having gone, instead, to another stall that was further down the line.  Even as she watched, a large, swirling puff of smoke – deep red in colour – came blasting up from within that stall.

_What on the green earth—?_

And she walked quickly down the row of stalls to the one in which he stood.  As she approached, Jaedin turned to her: one eyebrow raised, his mouth quirked to one side.  He, apparently, knew the questions that she was about to ask.

"Come, Princess," he told her, holding out a hand to her. "I've someone to introduce to you.  Elowyn of Avalennon," as he drew her to his side, and gestured with a graceful wave of his free hand into the stall, "Meet Telphiradon."

He grinned, as Elowyn looked – her expression becoming amazed – into the vibrant, alert ruby-red eyes of a fledgling dragon, who cocked its head at her.

"My Dragon-Friend."

Elowyn could not take her eyes off of the striking, although not full-grown dragon: he was a sharp, burnished copper colour, and as the light struck his scales, each one seemed to gleam like molten gold.  His wings were folded back against his sides and, from what she could tell, not of their adult size yet, impressive nonetheless in their paper-thin but powerful span.  As she watched, a thin trail of red smoke came from his lizard-like nostrils, situated far up on his snout, almost directly between his eyes.

"He's amazing…" was all she could think to say.

She didn't have to ask Jaedin where the little dragon had come from, for she knew of the history between the vampyres and the dragons.  Each of the Sentient races, in the beginning of time, had been paired with an Element: the faeries with the woodlands, the elves with the Sea, and the vampyres with fire.  At some point early in each vampyre's life, they were to select a Dragon-friend, whom they would raise from egg, to hatchling, fledgling, and then, finally, adult.  Dragons aged very slowly: they spent their first hundred thousand years or so within the leathery shell of their eggs, and then the next five or six hundred thousand years as younglings.  It took much time, care, and effort to bring a dragon to full maturity, she knew, and Jaedin would have formed a close bond with this dragon, Telphiradon, by now.

Jaedin, silent for the while she thought about this, then made a slightly grim noise, his eyes roving over the miniature dragon.

"Amazing?  In a way, I suppose – I've had him under my care so long that I feel I might as well be his entire family: mother, father, everything.  I found him when I was…eleven, I think; when I was working in the war mines."

He spoke of this without a hint of his former bitterness towards those horrible, pain-filled years of his life.

Elowyn, her mind reeling at the thought of his torment, tried to think of something else, some other subject to turn their discussion to, and suddenly, a very amusing image popped into her head.  She tried to stifle her laugh behind her hand, but Jaedin heard it anyway.  He swung to face her, eyebrows lifting.

"What is it?" he asked her.

But she shook her head, backing away a bit, one arm going to wrap itself about her waist as she tried not to show her mirth.  Finally, though, she was forced to admit defeat, and replied, still giggling a bit, "Oh – it's just – Jaedin, I just thought of you…as a father.  It made a very interesting picture, in my mind."

He shot her a look that half told her that he didn't want to hear her string the words 'Jaedin' and 'father' together in a sentence ever again, and half that she might just be surprised, if and when she _did_ see that.  

"_You_ as a mother might make an interesting picture in _my_ mind, Lady Elowyn," he informed her crisply, putting on his most arrogant and superior expression, and she sent him back her most queenly and withering look, as she replied, cuffing him lightly on the arm, "I see no reason why I ought to discuss such things with you, my lord; after all, there is no question of my responsibility to answer to you for—"

But as she was about to finish with 'anything whatsoever', Jaedin abruptly stiffened, and shot out an arm to catch her around the waist, to quickly put her behind him, with his body as a shield between her and the baby dragon.  

For Telphiradon, who had been observing his Vampyre-friend's interactions with the princess all that time, had taken offense at the girl's defiant air and, even more, at her apparent strike towards his arm.  Jaedin faced the dragon, gray eyes stern and commanding: becoming slightly annoyed when he saw the faint glow within the creature's tiny nostrils.  

"Tel – _no_," he said, firmly and authoritatively, in vampyric.  

Telphiradon, or Tel, as Jaedin called him, did not understand the common tongue: only vampyric.  Jaedin spoke to him as he took Elowyn by the arm and slowly brought her out from behind him, affecting what he knew the dragon would read as a position of mutual affection and possessiveness between the two Sentients.  

"Stand still, and do as I do," he murmured to her, and she nodded, obediently.  

Jaedin raised his hand to her face, gently caressing her along the cheek and jaw line, as he continued to the dragon, "This is the princess; _my_ princess."

Then he released her and stepped towards the dragon, facing him point-blanc, and seemed to tower over the fledgling, who was almost taller than her even when lying down.  The conical, horned head went back as Jaedin's shadow fell over him.

"We don't flame princesses," Jaedin told him, sternly; punctuating the statement with a very firm, "_Ever_."

And he stood back again, returning to Elowyn's side.  She looked up at him, imploringly, as she asked him, "May I speak to him?  Please?"

Jaedin sounded uncertain as he replied, "He doesn't speak the common tongue, Elowyn; in fact, he hasn't developed any of his adult dragon skills yet – flying, hypnotism, speaking, any of them.  He can only hear what I say to him, and he can only speak in telepathy; even at that, you can hardly understand him when he talks.  His voice is very loud, and he isn't very clear about what he means to say."

But she was resolute.

"Please.  At least let me try."

_She doesn't want to make an enemy of him right off,_ he realized, as he acquiesced to her request and led her by the hand into the stall, until they both stood before the dragon.  _She doesn't want to make the same mistake I did, with Orpheus…good choice, Elowyn.  Maiden, thou art much wiser a one than I..._

He took her hand, and placed it on Telphiradon's forehead; when speaking telepathically to a dragon, and a fledgling dragon at that, this was the best method: connect with direct contact between the two speakers, before allowing words to take place.  

Elowyn shivered inwardly to herself, briefly, but whether it was at the sensation of her palm upon the dragon's warm, surprisingly smooth forehead scales, or at the thrilling touch of Jaedin's dexterous, confident hand upon her own, she could not tell.  She then looked into the dragon's eyes, and felt his thought touch her own.

_White maiden who is?_

Jaedin was also in the connection, and so he heard this sally; she caught him smiling wryly as he stood there beside her, and felt his humor.  She turned her mind back to speaking to the little dragon, however.

_I am Elowyn,_ she told him.

The ruby-red eyes pierced into hers, and she sensed that he was trying to read within her mind, as full-grown dragons could do.  He couldn't get very far, though; his powers weren't all-the-way developed.

_Princess?  Faery?_ she heard him guess, after a bit of effort.

_Yes, princess of the faeries,_ she replied, and smiled at him, careful not to expose any teeth, which the dragon might have considered an expression of aggression.

A jangle of thoughts hit her then.

Confusion_ – Princess where from? – see light, lots of light – what for flower; pretty eyes – want to fly – Vampyre-friend gone long – smell blood and smoke in air – _a sense of impatience, and uneasiness, and a host of many less definable others.

_Shall we be friends?_

Her question seemed to bring the fledgling back into reality again, and he looked at her fully again.  The head atop its long, sinuous neck bobbed a bit.

_Friend, yes.  Friend, always._

And she stood back, feeling quite satisfied and content at having at last held an actual conversation with what was surely one of the most noble and revered creatures in all of Evyrworld: a true dragon.  Jaedin took her by the elbow and led her out of the stall, and back down the walkway, towards the exit from the stables.  She sensed his wonderment as he commented, slowly, "_You_ are amazing, Princess."

She laughed, short and lightly, as they stepped through the large doorway and began to mount the steps that led up from the stable level.

"Hardly; I simply desired to let him know I had no wish to be his enemy.  The rest was basic mind-linking – _you_ ought to know enough about that.  I am a bit surprised, myself, however, that he reacted with such admirable composure."

She quickened her pace and ran up the next few steps ahead of him, holding her white skirts out of the way of her flying little feet.  

Her next words drifted back to him—

"From what I read in his memories – the last person who tried to speak to him, other than _you_, very narrowly escaped a prompt incineration, and even then, he had to spend almost a month with the healers for various injuries.  Your Dragon-friend is more than loyal to you, Jaedin."

Oh, that girl!  

He couldn't decide what he'd rather do to her, as he came up the last few steps to the floor beyond them, where she awaited him: he couldn't choose whether he more wanted to strangle her for putting herself in such a dangerous position, when she knew full well of the risk that had been posed to her, or kiss her passionately.  

Well, he did neither.  

Telling from the progress of the sun into the skies outside of their hovering palace, it was now several hours after dawn, and breakfast would soon be at hand.  He went to her side again, sliding his hand mischievously along her waist, and told her, "Oh, I know, Princess – and think of it: very soon now, I won't even be able to keep him contained on this ship anymore.  Imagine what _that_ would do…"

*                       *                       *

They returned to the upper levels of the glider ship, finding their way to the room that had been designated as the place where they would have breakfast with her friends: a marvelous chamber, its walls almost entirely composed of diamond-glass, from about halfway up from the floor to the fabulous domed roof.  It was located – conveniently – quite close to the command room, so that Jaedin could go to and fro from dining to checking for progress reports on their journey.

While they had been down below, conversing with one another and then visiting Orpheus and the other denizens of the stable, the _Apocalypse_ had crossed back over the border between Sytherria and Elvendome, and now the landscape that they saw whizzing below them, as they stood together at the wall of windows, was gradually becoming less and less of a desert, and more woodland.  Within a few hours, Jaedin told her, they would once again catch sight of the forests that they had for so long traveled through.

At this, he turned 'round and went to sit in his chair, which had been located at the head of the table, but had been pulled out towards the windows some other time.  He slid down in it, affecting his most favored position, and let his gaze roam over her slender, white-garbed figure as she remained at the window, looking out.  

To his disappointment, he couldn't read her expression.

"Elowyn," he said, in a low voice.  In the tone of it, he made no disguise of what he wanted.  She turned her head to look at him, and he read the emotions in her face then: hope, determination, and even contentment.  As she came across the room and sank down onto the floor before him, leaning between his booted legs with her skirts settling in profusion over the tops of those boots, he continued to watch her.

"Tell me, Jaedin…" she murmured, as she took his left hand in hers and began to examine it, her fingertips running feather-light over the lines of the veins, the curves of muscles, and the hardness of the bones beneath his flawless, pale skin.  

He was looking down on top of her golden head as she spoke to him, and then his hand was moving to run and weave itself idly through her curls.  

"Do you know what it is that you want now?"

That was, oddly enough, a difficult question for him to answer at that very moment.  He shrugged, his gaze going off to look over the rest of the room – the long, immaculate black silk-hung table, the runner of pure white satin that went with it: golden tassels affixed to its ends a striking contrast against the ebony material.  In a row of four down the center of the table were slender glass vases filled with ten calla lilies, white and sharp spring-green in colour; gold and white china-ware there was, with carefully-cast knives, forks, and spoons, and crystal goblets.  

In moments, when the princess's faery companions had arrived, they would all once again sit down to share a repast together, and it would be one that was vastly different from the others that they had shared together, out in the woods, huddled around a campfire in the chill of morning.

He looked back at Elowyn, shrugging a bit.

"I suppose…I think…" he began, trying to make his answer as simple and uncomplicated as he could, which – he sensed – was hardly possible, "It's not so much a matter of _knowing_ what I want as it is _wondering_ what I will do once I have it."

And now she was smiling at him compassionately, tenderly: knowingly.

"It's not up for us to decide," she told him, settling back against his leg so that he felt instantly warmed and calmed by the sensation of her slender, unthreatening body against him. "All we can do is live."

He regarded her with a softly skeptical air.

"Is that what you think?" he asked her.

Her eyes never wavered from his.

"It's what I _know_, Jaedin," she answered, and he leaned forward, enchanted by both her words and her shimmering faery beauty.  How he wanted to kiss her at that moment!  But, be that as it may, they were interrupted – the door at the other end of the room opened, to reveal a very cordial Rákkhed Dahk-Marr.  He took note of the princess as she sat on the floor, at the feet of his master, and the way that Jaedin held her hands in his lap; quite apparently, he had just cut a conversation short, and much as he knew Jaedin would make him regret it, later, he had an urgent message to convey.

"My lord," he said, then, with a bow, "The Princess's companions are here.  I await your command to bring them in."

Jaedin slowly sat back in his chair, motioning with his hands for Elowyn to stand, although he imprisoned her hand with his own before she could move away, causing her to remain standing beside him.  He faced Rákkhed with a calm and dispassionate air, the lord who was in complete, confident control over everything in his possession.

"Very well then, Captain," he replied, his voice toneless and dry. "Show them in."

Rákkhed bowed again and left the room, with one last, furtive glance at his master.  Elowyn saw it, and knew as well as Jaedin did that the Antari was fully aware of just how the two of them now interacted with one another.  

Which could have been either a perfectly fine or very bad thing.      

"And now we shall see what your friends will have to say when I reveal our next step in this quest of ours, Princess Elowyn…" Jaedin murmured, as the dim figures of Lord Brendan, Prince Robeneron, and Lady Salamaïre appeared in the doorway to the breakfast room, led by Rákkhed and two other Antari guardsmen.  He rose to his feet as they came to stand in a little half-circle across the room from him and Elowyn, and addressed them calmly and civilly.

"Good morning, milords and milady," he said to them, eyes traveling across each of the three faeries. "I trust that you have passed an easy night?"

Robbie looked as if he wanted to bite out something remarkably caustic and angry to that greeting, but a movement of Brendan's hand stayed him where he was.  Sala was looking intensely at both Elowyn and Jaedin, and seemed to have gotten an idea of how things now happened to be.  She said nothing, however.

Brendan acted as spokesman of the group; he stepped forward, addressing the Dark Lord evenly and without resentment, "It is well of you to ask, but I fear that it was not quite so for us – we spent the night hours in exceeding concern for our companion, whom you had taken away for a private audience with yourself.  As this is the truth, and you asked for the truth, or so I assume, I hope that it does not offend."

Jaedin's lips curved a bit, with a soft and slightly mordant little smile.  Whatever his emotions were at the moment, he was concealing them very well.  He turned to the side a bit, and gestured at the length of the ornately-set table.

"It does not offend, my lord Brendan, and yes – I _did_ inquire as to the truth.  After all," as they all began to seat themselves in their respective places – a repeat of the night before, "It is the _truth_ that we are all gathered here for this morning."

"The truth?" Robbie questioned, cynically. "I thought you were _averse_ to it."

Jaedin, Elowyn could see, was working very hard to hide either an outburst of laughter, which would have only pushed Robbie further over the edge, or a snarl of irritation at those words.  He merely leaned forward and poured himself a small glass of some sort of brandy, however, replying as he did so, "Ah no, my good prince; all beings hold a core of truth within them, no matter what mettle they are made of, and it _will_, in eventuality, come out to show itself to the world.  I've simply delayed, which is partly abominable, and partly forced, on my part."

This held enough power to raise both of Robbie's dark eyebrows, and he was silent.  If he had any other arguments to make, he was going to hold them at peace – for now.  

Elowyn breathed a silent sigh of relief, and concentrated on eating.

As they sated their morning bout of appetite, Jaedin told them of what course they would now take.  He had had arranged for the Antari to appear, he told them, and seemingly take them captive, so that he could learn from his captain of the guard of what movements the Queen had made, since he had been absent from his desert realm.  

It appeared that there was an army marching, even now, forth from the very Black Gate that they were to enter the Dark Realm though; soon, they might chance to come upon it, and would perhaps learn its destination.  Overall, the whole battle in the desert had been a ploy; he found it necessary to get a progress report from his forces, and also to speed up their journey so that they would reach the Dark Gate in time.  Had the _Apocalypse_ simply appeared and they simply boarded it, there was the chance that the Queen might have had spies out in the desert, and she would have learnt of their position, and Jaedin's duplicity.

Yes, he told them all now: finally revealing the decision that he had made during the long, dark hours of the night as he had held Elowyn's sleeping form in his arms.  He would no longer serve the Dark Realm, and would do everything that he could to ensure its defeat at the hands of the faeries and their allies.  He went on to explain what he knew of the prophecy, and by the end of it all, Robbie looked as if he were about to spontaneously combust.  Brendan and Sala looked hardly any better for it, either.

Elowyn looked at Jaedin, her hands tightening their grip on the arms of her chair.  The whole situation was making her exceedingly uneasy, as it hadn't before.

Slowly and deliberately, Robbie rose from his chair.  Jaedin did the same.

_Oh Fates, no…_ Elowyn thought.

Beside the door, she saw Rákkhed stiffen; apparently, the same kind of thoughts that were going through her head were also going through his.

Robbie's voice, when he spoke, was low and cold.

"You knew of this all along – you had these plans, and you didn't tell us of them?  You never planned to speak even a _word_ of them to us?  And now you expect us to nod and waltz merrily into whatever this world-ending struggle is that we have before us, and just take you on your word – after all that you've done to us?"

Jaedin nodded, with emotion or hesitation.

"I do not ask you for your pardon, Robeneron of Lærelin," he said, in a level, controlled tone of voice: his gray eyes devoid of anger or apprehension. "Because I know that you would not desire to give it, and I do not deserve it.  But, believe me – I will do _anything_ that I can to stop the Ebony Queen, even if it takes every last ounce of strength within me.  We might work for a common purpose."

It all happened in a split second.  Robbie's arm shot back, and then the sound of his fist thudding into the Dark Lord's jaw sent shock waves into the room.  Instantly, Elowyn was at her nephew's side, restraining him from further violence, and Rákkhed Dahk-Marr was standing behind his master, attempting to help him up. 

Jaedin, however, got to his feet without assistance, and stood there for a moment, regaining his breath.  Then he looked up, at Robbie, and Elowyn saw the damage that had been done in the blow – Jaedin's bottom lip had been cut, and was bleeding.  As she watched, he raised his hand and cautiously touched the wound, wiping away the blood.  He turned back to the table, going to resume his seat, and they all did the same.

"I _did_ deserve that, however," he muttered.

Robbie, seeming to have been put at ease by finally acting upon his frustration, looked at him squarely: man-to-man.

"You're forgiven."

Simple as that.

*                       *                       *

Well, with all this said and done, the members of the newly formed alliance between Sytherria and the White Realm got down to business, for they had a short time to act.  

Leaving the remains of the breakfast on the table behind them, Jaedin led them all into the command room, where he showed them to a large, circular table.  As they stood in a ring around it, they all saw that it held a single occupant – and that was a globe of many swirling colours, which gave off a flash of light from time to time.  

Jaedin motioned to it, and explained.       

"This is the far-seeing orb that I keep aboard the _Apocalypse_; I have several others, including a relatively small one that I normally carry with me when I am traveling, but this one is – by far – the most powerful and the most accurate, able to show me things that I might not be able to see otherwise.  With its help, we will learn the location of the Queen's army, and then we will spy out their intended destination."

Then he crossed over to another section of the room, to where an enormous, detailed map of that section of Evyrworld hung.  Even as they watched, it seemed to move, and they realized that it was slowly changing to show the progression of their journey.  They were a little more than a hundred miles in from the border now.  Jaedin pointed out the specific landmarks nearby, and at once, they all recognized one of them—

Kaesilorana a'Yil, the Academy of Magic and Enchantment.  

It was a school run by both the elves and the faeries of the White Realm, where the younger generations of both the Sentient races and several others were sent to learn the arts of magic and enchantment.  Several hundred, if not a thousand, people lived within its mighty walls.  

The Academy itself had once been a great fortress, placed at the roots of the mountain range that ran through Elvendome, made almost virtually unassailable by the large canyon that surrounded it on every side but that which the mountains were on.  Now, it was one of the most respected and well-known institutes in Evyrworld as a whole, and many a talented enchanter, enchantress, bard, seer, and healer had come from it.  

They would pass over it in their course to the Dark Gate.

Elowyn stared at the map, pondering her memories of that place.

Then, suddenly, a sudden ice-cold flash of thought – perhaps premonition? – went over her, and she put out a hand to the wall, trying to steady herself.  Robbie and Sala, who were standing nearest to her, seemed to have experienced much of the same.  Elowyn shook her head slowly, in an attempt to clear off the strangely cowing blur that had come over her mind, and backed away from the map.  Somehow, it seemed as if it held an unimaginably warning, solemn portent to her…

But what could that _possibly_ be?

It wasn't long before one of the Antari came to Jaedin and reported to his master that the guards at their sentry posts had spotted a flock of birds rising from the woods just northeast of them, which betrayed the presence of the army.  Jaedin ordered that the warship's Invisible Cloak be put up, and explained to his baffled companions what this meant.  

They had all heard of the usefulness of the famed invisible cloaks, yes?  Well, his glider ship was equipped with something that had much of the same effect – when initiated, it would make the entire vessel completely unnoticeable to any eyes.  It would be, in essence, invisible, and would make no sound.

The Queen's army would never even know that they were there.

Soon enough, they were bearing down full speed upon the army, which stretched out front and back for almost a mile.  It was, as Jaedin remarked, a comparatively small strike force, at least as far as Zaschaea was concerned.  Brendan could attest to this, having fought against the Ebony Queen before.  Still, nevertheless, they must learn of where this particular group had been ordered to go.  If they could, if they acted in time, they might be able to prevent an attack on the nether lands of Elvendome.

They all went out onto one of the many walkways that led along the outside of the glider ship, there to stand and covertly observe their enemies.  Not only Skullex – the common combat-fodder of the Dark Realm – were the members of this army; there were humans, a scattered number of Stalkers, weyre-people, and not a few Dvastir and Trakkthar warriors, all heavily armed and prepared for battle.  Elowyn turned to see Jaedin coolly appraising them as the _Apocalypse_ followed silently overhead.  

"Who are they coming for?" she breathed, not really asking the question to him, but to the air itself in general.

Jaedin shook his head, turning away from the walkway's ledge.

"That remains to be seen, Princess – but I have my guesses, from what I've gathered of their current course."

She felt a knot rise in her throat; somehow, by the way he said those words, she knew that he really had learned of just where the army was headed, and that he didn't want to tell her.  And, if her own guess proved true, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know or not.  However…she had to!  Too much was at stake.

"Jaedin."

He turned to face her, one eyebrow arched.

"Jaedin, tell me.  You know where they are going."

The vivid gray eyes averted themselves from her, and he looked down, his features darkening.

"They've been sent to march on the Academy," he told her, his voice low. "She has ordered them to attack it, and kill everything within its walls; then, they are to return to her, to the Black City, and await further orders.  It is the first major fortress in the chain, in Elvendome, and it is the one that she desires to destroy first.  They have been given their mandate…nothing is to remain alive in it, after today."

He looked up at her, and then she knew that their thought was one and the same…

They _also_ would journey to the Academy.  

If an attack was inevitable, and the will of the opposing army as strong as Jaedin predicted it would be, then it would not do to simply stand and fight.  The _Apocalypse_ would serve as their much speedier transport there, and – if the Fates were with them – they would arrive long before the Dark Realm's army ever did.  The students and their tutors would be brought on board the glider ship and taken to safety, while the four faeries, their vampyre guide, and his elite guard would ensure everyone's safety by defending the fortress.

The first battle in the War of the Fates would soon be fought.

*                       *                       *

**A/N:**  And here I am – back again with an update of not one, not two, but _four chapters_!  (I sincerely hope I've got you all interested, now.  *winks*)  It's been a while, has it not…  But I've been suffering from more than a bit of writer's block, on all fronts – shudder with me, will you – and so I have at least somewhat of an excuse.  Actually, it's been writer's block, physics class, SATs, and Life in General that has been keeping me away.  So, now that I've been horrid and stooped to an attempt at finagling your sympathy out of you, how about some notes…  ^_^

**Raal the Sword Master:** *laughs a bit* Well, Jaedin has always had his own motives, and he most likely always _will_, but there _is_ a little to understand about them.  Jaedin and the Queen – she does not know where he is, and she does not know what he is doing.  When he has the crystal she gave him hidden in his clothing, she can't "see" him.  It's like somehow blocking an object on radar, in short.  Now, she can _guess_ at some of the things he might do, or feel, by way of having known him previously, and known him quite well, at that, and she can also use her many spies…which is the main reason why he "betrayed" Elowyn and her group, and had them taken onto the _Apocalypse_.  It was all, to con a phrase from a Muppet movie, "an elaborate ruse!  Ha! ha!" 

**Plaidly Lush:** Yes – indeed.  That is what most people have said, concerning our dear Captain Dahk-Marr – so totally Oded Fehr…now I am going to have to just go ahead and assume that is a good thing.  (hehe)  One cannot help but at least _somewhat_ like Rákkhed…he's all that remains of our dear Dark Lord's shredded and twisted conscience, I fear…and now Jay's glaring at me, what a surprise… 

**Elizabeth:** I appreciate your nice long reviews more than you can imagine!  Your input is very highly valued, I assure you.  ^_^  The eyes thing – hmm.  You are right; I believe I _do_ tend to overemphasize that aspect of our current "hero" and heroine.  The only reason for this that I can plead is my wanting to display how different they are: him, cold, dark, and almost metallic, in a way, next to her: all about Spring and life and light.  But it does get to wear a bit, when that detail is employed too often…it rankled me, after a while, when I finally took note of it…  Unfortunately, altering that in the story as it is on FFN would take a long while…rest assured, though, that I have taken your suggestions – all of them – into consideration and made the appropriate changes.  And I hope, now, that this next chunk of chapters leaves you with a keen sense of enjoyment.

**Grayfalcon:**  Elowyn's reaction there, at the end of the last chapter…well, given what we've learnt of them now…I would have to tell you that her falling into his arms, sobbing, is _not_ a product of Elowyn's having gone maudlin and damsel-in-distress.  Believe you me – if he were to do anything else to seriously tick her off, even in that moment, she would have properly kicked his sorry, arrogant frame back into submission.  Not that she would love him any less, of course.  ^_~  What I was going for there, mainly, was to show her new realization of How Things Are.  She's finally realized what life would be, for her, without him.  In a way, she's matured; she's realized that she is meant to love him, no matter how wrong everyone else might take that to be, and it weighs heavily on her.  Of course, not enough to keep her from letting him go…she knows now how much she loves him, and what ends she would go to, to protect him – even to save him…  There: now, have I answered your questions?

**GryffindorGal3:** Oh, believe me, m'dear, as far as timeline goes, the little sidetrack into the Hobknob and Ping village was fit exactly into there.  I'd racked my mind trying to get it to work, and I agree – it _did_ drag a bit, but it was all necessary, as further chapters will show…  (Besides if I _hadn't_ made them get stuck there for a while, I wouldn't have had the excuse to bring Jaedin's uber-sleek warship into the picture…and he _was_ bugging me to do that…) 

**Rosethorn:** *laughs maniacally* You know, I would love to see any sort of fan fiction you could come up with for this!  Suffice it to say, I am very flattered – even if you are only joking about it.  Now Jaedin, here, is definitely of the mind to require you to do it, because he still wants to see something featuring him "snogging" Elowyn.  Ignore him grumbling in the background; he's just out of sorts (dare-I-say "_as usual_"?)  Glad you liked the angst, as well.

Well, now, my friends, that – mercifully – is all for the moment on notes.  I hope I have answered whatever questions anyone might have had, and not put you all to sleep with my rambling either…  Let's on to the next chapter, shall we?  Follow me on through the woods – we, at last, continue our trek!  (And don't trust the little dewy-eyed forest creatures.  They're the evil ones, I tell you.  Trust the dragon and the wolf.  *winks again, then waltzes off, further into the trees…*)     


	33. Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty –

Battle for the Academy,

It had grown late in the afternoon by now, and the air, as it rushed past the smooth metal hull of the Sytherrian glider ship, was chilly and thick with moisture: the scent of fallen leaves, wood smoke, and harvest hanging over the earth.  The sky – the sun having begun to drift towards the far-off, tree-lined horizon – had begun to change from its bright, azure blue to a paler, more lavender-toned shade, the overall effect much different from the sunrise that Elowyn had witnessed in the desert of Sytherria.

Now she stood alone on the walkway upon which, earlier that day, she and her friends had caught their first sight of the Ebony Queen's new force of warriors.  She still wore her jeweled white gown, which gleamed purely in the waning sunlight, but she had also added the comfort of a thick, satin-lined wrap of white velvet, which she snuggled into for more warmth.  

As she stood there, she heard the faint click of a booted foot upon the metal floor behind her, and then black-silk-clad arms had come around her waist: drawing her against someone who was even more warm, even more comforting, than the white velvet that she had wrapped about her bare shoulders.  With a little noise of delight and contentment, she turned halfway in those arms, so that she could burrow her head up against the gently heaving and then residing chest that was behind her.  His voice came to her then, tainted with the dark playfulness of a predator that she had come to expect – and enjoy – from him.

"You know, Princess," he told her, "After all of this is over, you are mine."

She stirred; looked up at him, arching a mutinous eyebrow.

"I never said that I _would be_," she replied, coolly.

Jaedin caught her on her bluff, however.  With an equally cool and mischievously taunting smirk on his lips, he said—

"You didn't say that you _wouldn't_, either.  You are mine, and I am yours, whether you like it or not, whether you accept it or not.  If you refuse to acquiesce to your heart's commands, then I will simply have my way, and I won't apologize for it."

"And what if, Jaedin of Sytherria," she asked him, "when 'all of this is over', it turns out that I have been _betrothed_, by my parents, to some prince, lord, king, or whatnot, who is much better, and much worthier, than _you_?"   

But all she got to this was his most arrogant look, and his dry chuckle.  He laid a finger upon her lips, keeping her silent as he revealed to her, "Oh, I do not think that I have much need for fear _there_ – to begin with, flat, you would not permit such a thing to come to pass, nor would I.  And there _is_ no better or worthier one for you than me.  _I_ am all there is; and you, my sweet white lily, must simply come to terms with it."

She smiled coyly.

"Must I?" she questioned, and he grinned, his smile showing off the perfect whiteness of his vampyre's smile.

"Yes, you must, as I have.  You, my precious white opal and fair lily of the cold Spring, shall be the lady of Sytherria."

Her hands pushed against his chest, half-heartedly.

"You toy with me," she whispered, as his lips began to brush against her cheek, her hairline, and then she felt him smile against her skin.

"My fairest love," he said, pulling back so that they stood – hands alone conjoined, with the wind whipping around them, stirring her hair and gown, and the long black cloak that he wore, making it look like the wings of a gigantic bat.  He reached out, tipping her chin back so that she was forced to look up, into his face, and then he smiled at her, winningly, engagingly, and utterly irresistibly.

"Why _would_ I…"

No one was around to look at that moment; no words would be spoken, in jest or in hearsay, about anything that might be seen on that wind-swept walkway, so Jaedin, Lord of Sytherria, quickly – almost hungrily – took Elowyn in his arms, imprisoning her in his embrace.  She did not fight back or flinch away, but willingly allowed him to kiss her, showing him an ardency, as they embraced, that matched his own.  Her arms went about him, pressing against his shoulder blades, and as the wind whirled around them, they became so caught up in their kiss – in each other – that, once again, they quite forgot everything.  

When at last their lips were free again, Jaedin still held her close to him, murmuring words in his own language that she did not know the meaning of, but could guess at well enough.  

Hearing them made her think of the future, and imagine what it might look like…  Considering such brought, again, several very interesting pictures to her mind – the one that stuck out the most was her older brother, Gavin, chasing Jaedin around with a broom, threatening to beat him over his hairless skull if he came so much as within fifty miles of his sister ever again.

Jaedin must have had some sense of her thoughts at that moment, for she then felt his touch upon her mind, and then she could think of nothing but them, of nothing but the very moment before them.

Which wasn't all that bad, she thought, as she swept several heartfelt and ravishing kisses along his sharply angled, squared jaw line, up towards his cheek and ear, as she drew her hands up above his high collar, and over his shaven head.  Jaedin whispered his name for her again, and she said the same to him, which made him flush warm, and her cheeks to burn a bit.  This, with her former worst enemy.  Jaedin wanted nothing to do with being her foe, her arch-nemesis, ever again; in fact, at that moment, it was the very last thing that he wanted to do, and he told her so.

But he would always be her Dark One – _her_ Dark One, would he not?

Oh yes; of course he would.

Neither of them would have it any other way.

Then, for a long time, they simply stood together on the deck, as the sun slowly began to turn slightly redder than before, and the air grew colder.  But Elowyn was safe in the arms of the one who loved her, and his warmth, joined with hers, was more than enough to banish the chill from her reality.

_BAM!_

At once, Jaedin whirled the both of them around, staring with eyes that were nearly alight with an intense gray fire as they watched the burst of burning sparks that had only just missed them where they stood on the deck travel up into the sky, and disappear.  

The silence only remained for a split second.

*                       *                       *

"Captain Dahk-Marr, what in the deepest circle of the underworld was _that_, and why did it come so bloody close to hitting me?" Jaedin lashed out as he stormed into the command room, utterly furious and dragging Elowyn along behind him by the hand.  

Rákkhed came towards them, looking utterly baffled.  

"What was it?" Jaedin snarled, in a tone that informed everyone who heard it that he would not, under any circumstances, tolerate a delay of answer.

But his captain of the guard was unable to provide the reply he wished.

"My lord, I crave your pardon, but we have not been able to yet discover what caused the blast, and it is too dark below us to tell; if we could but—"

"Answers first, Captain; time for thought _later_," Jaedin growled, as he strode over to the far-seeing glass, black cloak swirling and snapping angrily in his wake.  He had still not let go of Elowyn's hand.  He leaned over the globe, snapping out the words that would cause it to become active, and glowered into its misty depths.  

Even as he had thought that his existence might hold the promise of being peaceful, if only for a moment, that hope had been shattered.  _We could have been killed – she and I!  Whoever is responsible for this will pay dearly for it—_

Then Elowyn was grabbing onto his arm.

"It's them – we've reached the Academy!  They sent a warning rocket up to meet us because they saw us, even with the Invisible Cloak; they think that we're an enemy, and that's why they tried to blast at us.  Jaedin, we _must_ to go down and speak to them!" 

*                       *                       *

"…You don't have any time to waste; they will be here by nightfall.  You must get everyone out _now_."

Weldyor, chief-administrator and head professor of Mythology and Animal Shape-Shifting, walked in through the arched doorway of his study, a large group on his heels.  

There was Prince Orlando, the famed faery nobleman who had once been transformed into a hideous beast by a rogue wizard of the White Realm; with him was his beautiful wife, Arielle Ávanarï: the Half-Faery, and Lord Brendan, brother to the ruler of the faeries, Orandor.  Following behind them was none other than Elowyn of Avalennon, Child of Prophecy, and Jaedin, the former Dark Lord of Sytherria; Prince Robeneron and Lady Salamaïre were also present, along with several more of the Acaemy's most preeminent and respected teachers, composed of both faeries and elves.  

Elowyn was the one who had spoken, and her words had been uttered in a heated and passionately insistent tone that spoke volumes of the urgency of the situation.  The head professor took his position by the fireplace and waited for them all to file in.  The black-garbed vampyre Dark Lord was, he noticed, by far the tallest, and yet he stood behind Elowyn, who was at least a foot and a half smaller than him, and wore nothing but white.  The vampyre's gray eyes pierced into Weldyor's intensely.

"But I am _baffled_ by this," the old wizard said, shaking his white head from side to side. "There has been no hint of a Dark Realm presence in Elvendome for countless millennia now, and even _with_ the threat of encroaching war…"

"You cannot think that we are _mistaken_," Jaedin hissed from the back of the company.  Instinctively, several of the faeries drew away from him, alarm and distrust flitting across their fair faces.  Jaedin, however, paid them no heed.  Stepping forward, he addressed the faery without hesitation or apology.

"Within perhaps only a few hours, that army will descend upon this place like a horde of locusts.  They've been sent here to kill every one of you, and if you do not act now, it will be to your own devastation.  Consider this – within perhaps only a few hours, you will be looking at a battlefield that stinks of destruction and death.  The walls that surround this place will not keep them out; neither will the spellbound gates and bastions, or the chasm that is beyond them.  This army will find a way across, and through – it is driven by a force darker than you have yet dealt with, even the most stalwart and war-hardened of you," He gestured widely with a swoop of one arm to the group in the room, glaring at each of them in turn. "You must heed our warning, and take everyone out of this place _now_.  You _cannot_ remain.

"Then shall we leave the Academy to destruction?" fired back one of the teachers, a raven-haired elf with fiery brown eyes. "Look around you, if you will, Dark Lord of Sytherria, and see what we have to lose – what of the destiny of this place, if the Queen gets a hold of it?  If we run, she will only gain a foothold in our land."

"Enough, all of you!"

This came from Arielle, who stepped forward: her brilliant blue eyes blazing with fury.  First she addressed Jaedin, stabbing a finger in his face.  

"It is true that the will of the Ebony Queen is powerful – _more_ than powerful, but coming to us with the choice of flight or doomsday is certainly _not_ to our aid!" 

Then she rounded on the elf that had spoken out, Eislen, and spoke even more vehemently to him. 

"And you – do you not have any idea what carnage would be wreaked among even the most skillful warriors we have here, should any remain to fight, and try to keep the dark forces back?  Are you suggesting that we stay?  I have three children within this place, and when I think that I must now go back to them and tell them that we must stand and await the coming battle…" 

She was silent for a moment, trying to contain her emotions; then, she burst out, "I will _not_ think of it!  If there is a battle to ensue, then I will cast my lot, and that of my children's, in with Elowyn and her companions."

Brendan now took his turn to speak, confronting Weldyor with an even but underlying urgent tone.  "What they have told you is true," he said, grimly. "A dark army, composed of Skullex, human, and other more unsightly warriors marches on this fortress, even as we speak, and they will be here before the morrow.  The choice of what you will do is, in the end, yours, but I counsel you to this – gather together the students, and allow them to board the Sytherrian warship; they will be safe there.  In the meantime, let those of us who are determined to do so remain behind, and defend the Academy while we may."

"If it stands, it is at the will of the Three," said Robbie, from the back of the room, his voice ringing into the air. "And if it falls…if it falls, it is likewise so."

*                       *                       *

Elowyn stood with Sala, watching as the beginning ranks of the very youngest students were quickly and quietly hurried onto the _Apocalypse_, which had been brought to hover a scant twenty feet off of the ground in the largest courtyard of the Academy.  The night had fallen rapidly around them, and now all was cloaked in darkness.  

Not an hour after their arrival, the two had exchanged their lovely day gowns for battle-garb: chain-link mail shirts underneath their dark shirts and tunics, leather breeches, and knee-length boots.  Their cloaks billowed about them in the cold breeze, and the light of the torches nearby glinted off of their hair, eyes, and the various weapons they wore strapped to their skin.  

Still, there was no sign of the enemy army.

Elowyn glanced up at the high walls of the building that was nearest to her: the stone glimmered pure and strong in the light of the moon, but clouds were beginning to blow in from the north, and soon its comforting glow would be obscured.  She shivered a bit, desiring to banish the chill from her soul, but unable to.

"I _hate _this," she whispered to Sala.

Her friend nodded, wordless.

They continued to watch the progress of the evacuating students and their caretakers.  The pupils of the academy ranged in age from as young as five to eighteen or nineteen; certainly, none of them were aptly prepared for a fracas in the midst of their own home.  The process was slow and painstaking: if the Queen had any of her spies out to report to her the movements of her foes, they would instantly notify her of any untoward activities within the Academy's walls.  

But there were so many students…would they be able to board them all in time?

Elowyn caught sight of Rákkhed Dahk-Marr, Orlando, and Robbie at the exact same moment then.  Rákkhed was in the act of coaxing a very young and very frightened-looking little girl onto the hovering skiff that would take the group that she belonged to up to the larger vessel.  She looked very uneasy, having been suddenly brought away from her dinner in the great hall, into the courtyard: only to be told that she must now accompany this strange, swarthy-faced man with the curving blade at his side and bizarre, swirling marks on his face, onto the gigantic humming thing above her head.

Her fright was understandable.

Rákkhed, however, in the end, won out: the little girl, an elfling – telling from the now-exposed pointed tips of her little ears – suddenly decided to trust him, and wrapped her tiny arms about his neck, allowing the Antari to gently lift her off of the ground, and step into the skiff.  He spoke to the figure that manned the vessel, and it sped off towards the open boarding deck of the glider ship.  

Elowyn, relieved, turned back to Sala.

But her friend was gone; Robbie and Orlando had called her over to help chaperone the next load of students, and Elowyn found herself alone.  Alone, though, for only a moment.  Before she'd even had time to let her sudden sense of loneliness sink in, she felt an arm slip about her waist.  

"_Istver-ar_…" she murmured, pushing her face into his chest and breathing in deeply, inhaling the scent of evergreen and incense that was so uniquely him.  

Jaedin drew his hands through her hair, knowing that soon, she would plait it into a braid and then pin it up somehow, so that it would not get into the way when she fought.  Somehow, the mental image of her decapitating a Skullex chilled him – he felt the hilt of her sword pressing against his hip, and disliked the feel of it.  

"_Merron nenein_…" he murmured back, and then held her away from him, gazing deeply and earnestly into her green eyes. "You know that I would rather have you be on board that ship, Elowyn."

But she shook her head, as he had known she would.

"Never," she told him. "I will not leave them – I will not leave _you_.  This is my place, and I do _not _intend to abscond it."

He smiled at her, and playfully flipped a wavy lock of her pale golden hair over her fine, straight shoulder.

"My own sweetest sword-maiden," he said to her. "When will I learn to trust in our Fate?  It is not our destiny to leave this earth until we have together vanquished the darkness.  I know this too well to forget it, even now."

"I will not leave this earth, nor will I leave you," she swore to him, knowing it as truth in her heart. "Neither will _you_ leave _me_."

"May my sword run me through before such a thing ever comes to pass," he promised back, and drew her close for an embrace that surged with emotion. "Oh Elowyn – how is it that I have not found you until now, when we must turn our thoughts not towards love and peace, but war, blood, and death?  The darkness closes in around us, and, shadow as I am, even _I_ cannot surmount it."

"Jaedin, it will end," she whispered.

Then, there was a call to them from the ramparts nearby – "Ho there, Elowyn, Jaedin!" – and, abruptly, fearing themselves caught in their passionate embrace, the Dark Lord and the Princess immediately detangled from each other.  Elowyn raised her voice and replied to the sally, "Here!  What's afoot?"

It was Robbie who called to them.  He had returned from his last trip up to the ship, having exchanged his place for someone else, and was now on the sentry detail at the walls.  He ran a few steps down the stairway from the ramparts, and without any seeming difficulty found them among the shadows.

"A lookout at the North Tower just spotted movement to the southwest, that's what," he replied to her inquiry, as he ran up to them.  In the cold moonlight, his pale skin looked even whiter, his hair even more jet-black, and his eyes glittered a bit. "Come now – they want you to join us there; you as well, Jaedin."

Then he turned and took off for the stairwell again, Jaedin and Elowyn following swiftly behind, directly on his heels.  They went a little ways down the wide pathway that the top of the walls made, stopping only when they'd reached the nearest watchtower.  Then, a golden-haired and blue-eyed faery instructor – Caldon – came to meet them.

"Our sentinel at the North Tower is Elyssia, an elf of the western woodlands who has the eyesight of an eagle, and until now taught an upper-level class of advanced telepathy." he told them. "She reported having spotted several yellowish pinprick lights in the distance…"

Thunder cracked overhead, making them all jump, and realize the exact extent of their overwrought nerves.  

Caldon continued, in a hushed tone, "That would put them at only about five miles away, if the lights she saw were our approaching friends."

"Which, I have no doubt, they are." Elowyn muttered, not quite under her breath, and the handsome faery nodded to her words.

"How much longer before all the students are on board?" he asked.

Robbie shook his head, grimly.

"I'm not certain of my estimate…" he said, and seemed to be hesitant of telling them the true answer to that question.  At Jaedin's slight glare, he revealed, "But to my _guess_, there's still another two hundred who haven't even been told that they're supposed to be readying for departure yet…"

Elowyn groaned.

"Fates, are they going to converge on us all and leave us scrambling like sewer rats trying to make our escape?  We've hardly any time left!"

Jaedin was already standing, his hand on her elbow causing her to do the same.  

"We're just going to have to speed things up a bit then," he said, and then he was pulling her down the walkway after him, without apology or fuss over his brusqueness,  Elowyn, however, was used to and even welcomed his domineering, authoritarian behavior towards all things, at certain times, and now was one of those moments.  

In less than a minute, they were in the dining hall.  

Some of the students – especially the younger ones – were still seated at the tables, finishing their dinner, as their teachers stood around them.  Some of them looked a bit nervous, and some would occasionally move across the room to whisper to each other; others looked relatively calm, even a bit complacent, as they watched over their charges and reprimanded ill behavior from time to time.  Elowyn felt Jaedin's arm go stiff underneath her hands, his muscles tightening, and when she looked up to his proud, sharp profile, she knew from the set of his jaw, the gleam in his eyes, and the darkness in his drawn-together eyebrows…

The Dark Lord was about to be _very_ dictatorial.

Moving so fast that she had to scurry after him like a puppy whose master had left it behind, dodging tables and benches, Jaedin swept into the dining hall, and snatched up the first child who came within his reach.  It was a young boy, about five or six years of age, and of mostly faery descent, although Elowyn could detect a faint trace of Elvish blood in him; the child had been running around, rowdily playing king-and-knights with a few of his friends, and had blundered straight into the Dark Lord's legs.  

Now he writhed and kicked in protest as Jaedin tucked him under one arm and thundered out orders to the startled people in the chamber.  They were about to be attacked by a merciless army, he snapped at them; evacuation had already begun, and if they were the ones who wound up getting left behind, it was not from lack of effort on _his_ part.

His words, predictably, caused an immediate reaction.  

Suddenly, people of all ages were running about, friends searching for friends, teacher vainly trying to instill order again – a general pandemonium.  Then, one of the faeries who was heading up the evacuation effort outside appeared in the doorway, and Jaedin thrust the child into his arms, coldly ordering him to get moving, or be responsible for delivering the bodies of each child in that room to their mothers, as he and Elowyn brushed past.  

"Who the bloody underworlds do you think you are?" the astonished faery called after him, and Jaedin turned, sending him a glare that would have promptly transformed even the most greedily roaring fire into pure ice.

"I think, my friend," he spat, in his most contemptuous and venomous tone, "the question that you meant to ask is what the bloody underworlds I think I'm doing – and _there_ lies your answer!"

He pointed back towards the chaotic room, and then grabbed Elowyn's hand in his again, leaving the faery momentarily distracted; by the time he'd looked back to where the furious specter in black and his companion had been the second before, they were already gone.  

*                       *                       *

Meanwhile, Jaedin was fuming as he stormed down the hall, Elowyn in his wake.  She kept her silence, knowing that – in this sort of mood – he might not know, or care, whom he lashed out at.  

They came upon the boys' dormitory, and Jaedin stepped inside: Elowyn remaining behind.  She heard him snap out the same order that he had given in the dining hall to the adolescents inside, and then he was emerging from the doorway, and they were on their way to the girls' hall.  Elowyn carried the message this time, and before long, they'd emptied an entire wing of the Academy of all of its inhabitants.  

By now, the courtyard was swarming with people, and the Antari and the Academy teachers all had their hands very full.  Jaedin and Elowyn went back up to the ramparts, and made a progress report.  In a little under an hour, the fortress would be emptied, but for the defenders – then the battle could begin.

Then the sentries' cries began to sound up and down the wall.

In the midst of the stampede of the panic-ridden mass, Elowyn stopped: whirling around, and froze, her eyes having gone wide.  As she looked on, each of the watchtowers were lit up at their crests by red flames – the signal of attack.  Then she caught the words in the shouts of the people who stood on the wall—

" 'Ware!  'Ware!  We are embattled – they have sprung on us!  '_Ware_!"

Elowyn heard a high-pitched, sharply whining sound on the air then, and dived to one side, tackling a pair of students as – without warning – a deluge of flaming objects began to fall from the sky, shooting over the top of the wall.  _Catapults!_  Her mind reeled with horror, her senses threatening to overthrow her mind, as people began to fall around her.  There was the sound of screaming – yelling – crying – further fiery attacks from the sky, and then the swoop of wings on the air, a ragged bellow—

Dvastir warriors, mounted atop hideous, hyena-like winged beasts, appeared in the sky then, diving out of the sky towards the crowds of fleeing students!  

Elowyn swept her bow from its place at her back and fitted an arrow to it, even as she heard Sala's ringing cry over the tumult – "Bring them down!  _Fire at will_!"

The fell creatures were assaulted by the deadly rain, and many of them fell into the midst of the people in the courtyard, to be instantly set upon by those who had chosen to fight.  The more dexterous and skilled enemy warriors, however, managed to wheel their mounts away from the arrows, and sailed off into the night sky.  

_BOOM!  BOOM!  BOOM!_

Some of the Dark Realm army had managed to get past the arrow-deploying assassins at the gatehouse, and now they stood upon the bridge, attacking the enormous gate with a battering ram.  The heavy steel bolts and thick wood held, however, but no one knew for how long.  

Elowyn called out to the people who surrounded her, "Make for the skiffs!  Get the students on board!" 

Then she ran forward, shoving and hauling people onto the skiffs, left and right, until there was no room left upon them.  They could not return for another load of passengers; whoever was left upon the ground must now remain there, and fight if they could. 

Her friends – she did not know where they were.  She swung around wildly, sword drawn, casting about for her companions amidst the chaos.  Within a moment, she had spotted Sala, up on the wall with the other archers, valiantly leading the effort to hold back the wielders of the battering ram.  Another orb of flaming shrapnel came flying through the air, and blasted into the stones in the courtyard not fifteen feet away from her, throwing dirt and debris everywhere, with a nearly mind-shattering noise of explosion.  

The _Apocalypse_'s engines ground to life, and Elowyn saw it lift away from the ground, and begin to move away from the courtyard, and the Academy itself.

And there they were.

The battle was upon them – the first of the war – and they had no choice but to remain.  To stand, and fight.

Still, the barrage of airborne attacks continued to rain down upon them from the night sky.   Elowyn caught sight of her other friends, as they ran here and there, every which way: fighting off more strikes from the winged beasts and their masters, and struggling to put out the fires caused by the catapulted objects.  Brendan fought hand to hand with a Dvastir warrior, and their swords flashed and zinged off of one another in the cold, pale moonlight.  Robbie launched himself at the enemy fighter from behind, and they rolled onto the ground; Brendan finally ran the other figure through with his sword, ending it.  Nearby them, Orlando and Arielle and the few other teachers, with their left-behind students, had formed into a ring around the frightened looking younger academy-goers.  Elowyn felt her heart turn to ice within herself – some of them were only children.

The opposing army would make no distinction between an unarmed six-year-old and a martial expert of two thousand years.

Thinking of this made her recall Jaedin – where had he gone off to?  Had he remained in the fight, or had he been aboard the warship when it had departed, with the number of students that they had managed to evacuate?

No – he hadn't!  She saw him upon the wall, and now he was fighting off a number of dark figures, which seemed intent on bringing him down.  

He was several lengths away from Sala and her archers; they could neither see nor hear the sounds of the Dark Lord's struggle from their position.  Elowyn called out to several of the fighters around her and rallied them about her, then ran to the vampyre's defense, crying his name furiously as she did so.  

Ladders – wide, towering ladders had now been raised to the walls of the fortress, and that was how their enemies had managed to confront him.  As Elowyn ran down the wall, her group of faeries and elves dashing behind her, she fought off one after another of the things, pushing against each with a strength that she had not known her small, female body to possess, until they went crashing down away from the wall.  

Slowly but surely, she battled her way to Jaedin's side, and when she had gotten there, to him, he flashed her a smile.  

"Princess!" he shouted to her, "I'm so glad you've managed to join me!"

Elowyn swung viciously with her sword in reply, clanging it into the helmet of the soldier whom she was now faced against, and then struck out with her booted foot.  It made firm contact with his gut, and sent him lurching backwards as she lunged forward, quickly and cleanly slashing his throat with her blade.  

It did not matter now whether she had truly fought in any sort of fracas before – now, her instincts came in, and she only felt the apathetic, chill regard that a predator has for its prey, towards the enemies she saw before her.  They had attacked her friends, the innocent people within the walls of what they had thought to be a safe haven, and herself.  

Retribution was required.

Just then, the attack on the walls seemed to have waned; their foes had all either given up or been slain, but they all knew better than to think that the battle would have been over in a scant five minutes.  Even as they stood, they heard the defenders of the gatehouse calling out, warning that the army beyond was attempting to break through the heavy wooden gate.  

Jaedin took off at a run down the wall, ordering as he ran, "_Archers_!  Take off those most exposed around the ram!"

Then he gathered the people who stood in the courtyard together and gave to them their directives.  Take the remaining children, and make for the farther side of the Academy – the part of it that faced the walls.  Somewhere on those beginning foothills of the mountains, there _had_ to be some sort of path that would take them out and away from the fortress.  The enemy, he told them, would soon break through, knowing the tenacity of those they faced, and he did not want the blood of infants on his hands.  

Another resounding boom of the battering ram against the gate served to punctuate his words, and at once, his words were rewarded with movement.  Orlando, Arielle, and now Brendan took positions as the leaders of that group, and although Jaedin tried to make Elowyn go with them, she refused to leave his side.  

Together, they ran back to the gatehouse, and in through its doors.  

Within it, they found eleven archers at the thin slits of windows, taking aim and then firing at the first available targets they could catch a glimpse of.  Robbie and Sala were there, leaning against the wall with swords drawn, firing off their own barrage of arrows now and then.  They looked up as Jaedin and Elowyn entered the darkened chamber.

"The little ones have escaped?" Robbie asked, anxiously, and Elowyn nodded, although her eyes were downcast and filled with pain.

"For the moment, yes," she replied, "But I fear that if we cannot somehow keep these evil creatures from coming in, to us, the young lives of those who are even now being led forth from this place of destruction will be ended, ere this night is flown."

"What can we do?" "Is there no hope?" rang out among the other people in the room, and Sala hastily commanded a continuation of their defense.  Jaedin looked 'round at the other dark figures within the room, gray eyes unreadable.

"They will come through, whether we wish it or not," he said, in a low voice. "We have only to stand our ground and hold them off for as long as we can."

"Can't you shape-shift?  You transformed into a dragon once before, to save us from the harpies," Robbie said, suddenly. "Do it again, and end this _now_."

Jaedin shook his head.

"I cannot, Robeneron."

"_Why_ not?"

The vampyre refused to answer; then again, he didn't have the chance to, for at that very moment, the repeated blows upon the gate ceased, as did the war cries and commotion from the army that stood just on the other side of the wall from them.  A voice rang out, clear and commanding, over the dead silence, as everyone froze.  

Jaedin immediately stiffened, for the person that the voice addressed was him; as they listened, and heard what the speaker had to say, he put his face in his hands and fell back against the wall, with a loud groan.

"Jaedin DragonMaster, lord of Sytherria and former knight-errant to the lady of the Dark Realm: Zaschaea, the Ebony Queen – show thy face!  It is Arranus Griffynor who speaks!"

As soon as that had been said, anyone at all who knew of the ancient history of Evyrworld knew exactly who spoke.  

Arranus Griffynor was another one of the Ebony Queen's most favored lieutenants, a brilliant and merciless warlord whose prowess in battle was only matched by his extreme hatred for his enemies, and his boyish sense of humor in times of peace.  He was a noble figure, although his outward appearance well hid the dark, twisted creature that was inside of him.  Standing tall, with the bronzed skin of a god, and the high, aquiline features of a true nobleman, gray-eyed and golden-haired, he had been one of the Dark Lord of Sytherria's contemporaries.  And, it had been noted through time, one of his greatest enemies.  

Now, as they looked out through the narrow windows in the gatehouse, they heard his rich, cultivated voice echoing against the stone walls of the Academy, and Jaedin grit his teeth in anger and frustration.

"Come now, Jaedin…" Arranus said, in an indulgent, comradely fashion as he rode back and forth in front of the gate, before his troops: mounted upon his fine gray charger, arrayed in his finest golden armor with a scarlet cloak and scarlet-plumed helmet to match. 

"Don't be so unsociable; there's no call for _that_.  Step out and speak to me – we've not seen each other face to face for many a year now, and I would renew an old and _cherished _acquaintance…"

Elowyn listened to the sound of that golden voice, and immediately felt her heart gripped by icy talons of fear as she heard how it trailed off into sibilance at the last syllable of that word.  

Here, now, was a viper: poised to strike, and without any compunction towards doing so.  Arranus, apparently, had been the one selected to lead the Queen's forces in their first foray against the White Realm, into Elvendome; it was no small wonder why.  Not only was he without qualm about slaying both man, woman, and child – he was also a person who could, very easily, push Jaedin over the edge.

If the Queen's former knight could be driven to the point of mindless, bloody rage and violence by anyone, Arranus would be that man.

She dashed to Jaedin's side, and grabbed his hands, pulling them away from his face.  Her green eyes stared into his, desperately, as she said to him, "Don't listen to him, Jaedin – don't listen.  You know what he wants, don't listen."

"Jaedin…" called the dark general's voice again, turning a bit singsong. "I won't ask you again.  Precisely _what_ hinders you from coming out to meet me?  You can't be afraid; I know that that is plainly not you.  What is it then?  Perhaps you are busy…busy, no doubt, with your lovely Princess, may I assume?  However, I must ask you – why do you carry on such a dalliance with her, such a childish, puppy-eyed infatuation?  After all, _she_ was the one who dragged you into all of this: she, and none other."

Jaedin stood, looming ominous and black even in the shadows, and everyone backed away from him.

So, _this_ was the Queen's plan.  She would send forth her army, and have it led by the one person whom she knew would instantly break down even the last barriers of his self-control, to the point where a confrontation between the two would be inevitable?

Then so it would be.

If Arranus wanted to see the Dark Lord of Sytherria, he would.

And, without a word, Jaedin passed from the chamber, and went out to meet his foe in direct confrontation.  The dark army stood still as they awaited the answer to their leader's sally, and – at last – a figure robed all in black stepped forth from beneath the shadows at the gate.  Arranus, sitting atop his magnificent stallion, smiled broadly: he knew who it was who approached him, and he was pleased.  As the dark form moved forward, he swung down out of the saddle and went to meet his guest.

"Long has it been since I last looked full upon your features, Griffin-lord of the South," Jaedin's dry, resonant voice said from within the depths of his hood. "Yet I am hardly surprised to mark that their perpetual puerile cast remains, as does the sullen clouded brow and shiftless eyes, the uneven chin."

"Shiftless eyes and clouded brow, perhaps," Arranus replied, one eyebrow arching coolly; then, as a direct taunt, in retaliation for Jaedin's insult given to him, he said, "But at least _my_ lower face isn't marked by a scar from a lowly Skullex.  Golthaur's life was ended as of late; it seems that he and several other members of our collaboration had a disagreement, which ended in bloodshed.  Really, a very nasty deal.  One that could _easily _be duplicated this night, Jaedin, which was the true reason I called you out here."

The caustic amusement of the vampyre fairly dripped from his voice as he replied, with an undercurrent of a laugh in his tone—

"I had hoped that you wouldn't have invited me out here merely to discuss our _facial features_."

Now Arranus was becoming irritated with the delay in things.  His features abruptly took on a dark, almost feral cast, and he paced towards Jaedin, as he bit off at him, "Of course I wouldn't have – too much lies at stake here for us to stand about, bandying words back and forth between each other.  I've come to you with a _purpose_."

"Name it," the specter in black hissed, sibilantly.  

"The Queen has sent me here to relay to you this message, should I ever chance to find you during our foray into the Elven lands." Arranus revealed. "She wishes you to know that you have a choice – you may remain here, with your newfound allies, and watch them fall, one by one, or you may return to her now, to the Black City, and once more take your place at her side.  There is still time for all to be forgiven, and she is quite willing to take you back under her wing.  I beseech you, Jaedin: choose wisely, for this is not a decision that she will allow you to make again.  After this moment—"

Jaedin made an impatient movement with his hands, cutting him off.

"There is no turning back – I _know_," he lashed out. "All too often has this been how each ultimatum runs in my life, each decision: I have only _one choice_.  But I have made my choice now, Arranus, and I _will not_ turn back from it."

The other's eyes burned with a deep fire as he heard this.

"You will not reconsider?"

"I do not need to answer any question of yours, stable-urchin," Jaedin replied to him, casually swatting him aside with his words, as if the golden-armored general were a mere housefly whom he had become annoyed with. "The fact that I am here with you at all is merely due to my curiosity towards what you had to say.  I must admit, I _am_ slightly disappointed.  I had thought that you would have come up with something much cleverer…but forgive me: ultimatums have long begun to _bore_ me."

And the gray eyes gleamed beneath their hood.

This affront was almost too much for Arranus to handle.  He had long resented Jaedin for his superior skills and strength, both in battle and normal life, and even secretly despised him for having come into contact with the elusive Child of Prophecy, who was rumored to be as beautiful as the dawning sun itself.  The Queen had shown much favor to Jaedin, and now – even as he took the seemingly suicidal path against her – he appeared to prosper.  He glowered at Jaedin then, hands working at his sides.

"Now, if _that_ is all of the message that you were sent to convey," Jaedin said, in a cold and utterly frightening manner, "I suggest that you desist in the attack upon this place, and take yourself off to your Queen in her twisted bastion of a city.  Tell her what I have said to you: that I have cast my lot in with those whom she had, lying, named to be my enemies.  I have found the truth, and with it I shall remain.  Naught of what you can say, or do: know this, will serve to sway me."

"So be it, then, Jaedin DragonMaster."

Jaedin smiled slightly beneath his hood.

"So be it."

Then he stepped away, and returned to the gatehouse, unsheathing his sword as he did so.  Now the battle would continue – and, perhaps, his conscience would at last allow him to rest, for he knew that he had, finally, made the right decision.

*                       *                       *

The battle went on through the night, and eventually, it was fought both inside and outside of the Academy.  The walls of the fortress had been constructed of stone, and stone did not burn – but everything else could.  Fire and destruction raged through the place, as the night wore on.  Defender and assailant alike fell, one beside the other, and under the face of the moon, much blood was spilt.

But not before one side had been utterly destroyed would the fighting end.

As enemy soldiers thrust their way into the very chambers where the arts of magic and enchantment had been taught, for so many countless centuries, they encountered a stout resistance.  Each of the defenders were skilled in the martial arts, and a lady-warrior of the Amazons led the archery front, while two young faeries had marshaled together a group of swordsmen.  

Those two were, of course, Robbie and Elowyn, who had found themselves abruptly driven away from the main lines of the battle by an unexpected attack.  Now, they worked together against their foes, even as they were forced into a domed, circular-shaped room: one of the lecture halls.  

Within moments, writing desks and chairs had been thrown aside, smashed against walls and leapt over, and trodden underfoot until they were worth no more than kindling.  Lifeless bodies lay sprawled on the ground everywhere, even as their comrades strove against each other.  

Elowyn was engaged in a skirmish with a helmeted female warrior, who matched her blow-for-blow in their combat; with graceful, calculated slashes of her sword, she parried each attack of her assailant, moving backwards as she did so.  When she'd reached the center of the room, she felt her shoulder blades come up – hard – against some else's backbone; the thought of turning now to this newest threat went through her mind, but was within an instant dispelled: the person behind her was Robbie.  

He too was fighting against an opponent who was equally matched with him, and she glanced at him over her shoulder, briefly, shouting out, "Well, Rob – how's this for a late summer night's excitement?  Trumps being caught in a useless, all-hours cotillion, doesn't it!"

He couldn't afford to look back at her; his foe was yet advancing on him, and she felt him lurch to the side as he jumped quickly in the air to avoid the blade that had been swept out at his legs.  When he had reconnected with the floor, Robbie made his reply—

"That remains to be seen, Elli!  I'd really like to know where our so-called reinforcements have gotten off to though; it looks as if we're in a bit of a fix!"

"No _jot_!" she muttered, as she spun around and shot out her hand at the female fighter before her, sending the other girl flying backwards through the air to crash into a pile of overturned desks and benches.  

In a second, she'd flipped herself back onto her feet and was lunging at Elowyn again, with a growl of anger.  The faery princess, however, had gained enough time to recover, and plot.  The instant her antagonist had raised her sword to aim a blow at her, Elowyn sent a numbing blast of power her way, and when the tigress fell back, she promptly caught her across the torso with her sword blade.  Herein ended the duel, and then Elowyn turned to narrowly avoid a crushing blow from an expertly wielded mace that had been crashing down towards her head.

The chaos in the lecture room wore on for a while, finally escalating when the faeries found themselves driven backwards out of it, and into an unaccommodating hallway.  

Their enemies seemed inexhaustible in number – it appeared as if they were coming out of the woodwork, and by the scores.  Even with the added help of their powers, it did not seem as if the struggle would soon be ended.

Robbie was knocked backwards, without warning, by a hearty shove from his current combatant, who bore down on him with an iron-spiked club raised for a kill.  

Losing his balance, the prince went crashing into a doorway that was at the end of the hall, slipping against the smooth wooden panels just as the club's spikes dug into the wood where his head had been the split second before.  With a crash, the door splintered asunder, and Robbie fell into the room beyond it.  His sword flew from his hand, skittering across the stone floor, and he looked up – in instantaneous despair.  

The club came whistling towards him again, aiming for his exposed chest as he made a last-ditch attempt at forming a counterattack blast of magic, but he would never be able to defend himself in time—

Then, the hulking, armored body went stiff, and the figure within it made a choking sound of protest…as Robbie saw the bloodied sword-tip that had torn through the front of its tunic, from behind.  The blade disappeared, with the sound of metal scraping against metal, and the body fell forward onto him.  

With a disgusted objection in the faery tongue, Robbie pushed the corpse off of himself and grabbed the hand that was offered to him, pulling himself to his feet.

"You couldn't have made him fall the _other_ way?" he asked Elowyn.

She seemed about to reply to his sarcasm, in kind, but then her green eyes had focused on something else within the room, just behind him.  Robbie began to ask her what was wrong, as he turned around…and then he saw what it was that she was gaping at.  

In the shadows at the back of the unlit room huddled a group of five or six Academy students.  Most of them were under the age of ten, with the exception of two older figures.  Even they looked to be only around thirteen or fourteen.

No one was with them.  

The princess and her nephew were obliged to continue the fight, but when the last of their opponents had been either driven off or slain, they turned back to the knot of frightened children.  Their attackers would return soon, they knew, but now…

Elowyn was pale and rigid as she stood looking at the shaking, white forms before her; she was seething with rage.  

"They were left behind – no one even knew that they were here," she said, green eyes alight with the fire of her anger, "They've been trapped, during all of this."

And with that, she went forward and took the smallest child – a little she-faery – into her arms, simultaneously grabbing the hand of the boy elf who stood next to her.  Elowyn's comrades forsook guarding the doorway, looking out for any further attack from their enemies, and soon the abandoned children were being escorted out of their hiding place, flanked by their rescuers.  

Jogging along beside her, sword in hand, Robbie questioned, "And now what do we do?  We can't bring them into battle—"

She bit off her next words without even looking at him.

"What _else_ can we do, Robbie?  I'm not going to leave them here, to themselves, if that's what you are suggesting we do!"

"_No_," he said, quickly. "Can we not follow after the others on the mountain path – Orlando, Arielle, and Brendan have charge of the other students; surely it would be safer for these young ones to be left in their care rather than bring them along with us!"

But just as he said this, something huge and hard came hurtling into the side of the building that they stood within, crashing into the stone walls with the sound of an explosion.  The older combatants flung themselves around the children to shield them, as mortar and rock rained down about them, and the air was filled with a thick cloud of dust.  Now several of the children were crying, and Elowyn struggled to her feet with her load, calling out her orders to her companions.

"Do as he says – to the path into the mountains!"

And they all took off at a run down the corridor, dodging around fallen rafters and huge chunks of stone.  Through a doorway and out into the cold night air they dashed, then down a steep stairway.  Elowyn, looking forward, could already see the hanging bridge that led across a short gorge, then up into the mountains. _ If only Brendan, the other two faeries, and their group had not gotten too far ahead—!_

Suddenly, something clamped down on her shoulder; Elowyn jerked back, losing her hold on the child she held in her arms, and felt herself hauled backwards.

Then she screamed.

*                       *                       *

Jaedin watched as faeries, elves, Skullex, and countless others fell around him, fighting off attacks on every side.  He had faced many a desperate battle in his life, but never before this night had he experienced such a dire urgency to win, and he knew why.

Tonight, he was not merely fighting for himself.

He was fighting for his princess.

But she had long since disappeared from her place at his side.  The last time he recalled having a glimpse of her had been before their enemies had made a sudden rush at them, which had resulted in the split of their unified fighting effort.  He had been able to sense her presence within his mind, however, as the skirmish went on, until he had become distracted by the appearance of mounted warriors.  Within all of forty-five seconds, he had dispatched the rider and taken the restive horse's reins into his own hands, quickly molding its will to his own.  

Having been deprived of his ability to shape-shift or even utilize his powers without causing notable damage to his already waning life essence, he found that it was much easier to deal with his enemies from horseback.  To anyone else, however, it would have appeared that the Dark Lord did not find any sort of fighting difficult _at all_.

Suddenly, then, he became aware of a pair of eyes that had focused on the back of his head, and wheeled his horse around, turning to face his adversary.  The golden armor and blood-red cloak of Arranus, general in command of the Queen's army, showed plainly in the moonlight, and Jaedin twirled his sword around in one hand, calmly facing him.  

_Come to meet me now,_ was the thought that the vampyre heard from the other figure on horseback.  He nodded, in assent.

And then they were charging at one another.        

The sound of the collision between the two riders and their mounts was horrific; the horses screamed in pain and terror, and swords clanged in the darkness, as two bodies smacked together.  When they fell apart, Arranus had driven his ivory-hilted dagger deep into Jaedin's shoulder, but the vampyre did not react with any sort of pain, dismay, or surprise at all.  Instead, he merely plucked the weapon out of himself and threw it away.  

His dry voice rasped through the shadows – "Is _that_ the best you can do?" – and then sparks flew from the swords' blades, again, as the duel continued.  

Eventually, they were both unhorsed, and Jaedin knocked Arranus' sword out of his hand.  The general flung a crescent of killing power in the Dark Lord's direction, which Jaedin averted with the blade of his own sword, causing the bright green sliver of light to go spiraling through the air, and slice into the wall nearby.  

Jaedin continued to advance on him, as Arranus darted towards his sword.  With not a second to spare, he took it in his hand again and blocked the blow that Jaedin aimed at him, although he fell to one knee with the force of the attack.

Now totally unaware of any of the struggle that was going on around them, the two enemies fought their way beneath a destroyed archway: lashing out at one another like a pair of furious, indomitable serpents, both extremely venomous and deadly, and both equally averse to being defeated.  Then Arranus was flung back against the wall by Jaedin's elbow in his chest; for a moment, he stood there, winded, as Jaedin took the chance to regain his own breath.  

How well they both remembered this very same scenario, only in a much different place and time!  The Queen had matched them against one another, during their training, many a time, and now they were both keenly aware of just how impossible it was to defeat one another.  

Still, Arranus had his orders, and Jaedin had his princess.

"I never expected you to surrender," Arranus gasped as he raised his sword again.  Jaedin had dealt him a wicked slash to the head, and now blood mingled with sweat, streaming from the long cut near his hairline.

Jaedin's full lips quirked a bit, in a menacing smirk.

"Nor did I expect _you_ to surrender," he replied.

"Then how do we end this?" Arranus fired back, as their swords clanged together once again: locking together in the beginning of a furious contest of the wills.

"_You_ run away." Jaedin snarled. 

But this was not at all what Arranus had in mind.  Beginning to laugh, softly and mockingly, deep in his throat, he pulled back with astonishing speed and drew forth something from within his cloak.  The intense gray fire in Jaedin's eyes transformed into a living inferno as he saw what the general now held in his gauntleted hand…

_A silver stake._

Arranus waved the weapon back and forth in the air, tauntingly, as he revealed, "She gave this to me, only a short time after she'd become aware of your betrayal, Jaedin of Sytherria – she placed it my hands with a single command – _'Take this,'_ she said to me, _'And bring it back to me stained with his blood.'_ "

"She promised you power and riches beyond your wildest dreams as well, didn't she?" Jaedin sneered, turning the Queen's words into a vile degradation of the spoken language.  Arranus recoiled, with a snarl, as he continued, "And what else did she give you?  The assurance that you would live forever after in high regard of all around you, in a place of unsullied authority, when you had made the lands of her enemies run with rivers of the blood of the men, women, and children whom you had slain?  It is folly, Arranus – a folly that you have walked into – and you will reap its rewards."

"The folly is upon you, Jaedin DragonMaster – now death, _death_ to you and all your vampyre kindred!"

Arranus lunged at him, with an animal-like ferocity, and Jaedin found himself unexpectedly borne backwards by the brutal strength of the assault.  They slammed against the wall, and then he felt the silver stake pressed against his torso, directly against where his beating heart lay.  If he so much as moved…

The hot, belabored breath of his foe washed onto his face, as the two glared into one another's eyes.  Arranus grinned in open exultation.  Now, at last, he would finally make an end of the Dark Lord of Sytherria, the Queen's Black Knight…

"Silver," he breathed, his words turning into a low hiss: "It's the only thing that you fear – the only thing that can _kill_ you."

Jaedin looked him straight in the eyes.

And if Arranus had had any sense whatsoever, he would have immediately – at that very moment – backed away, and then run as far from the black figure in front of him as he could possibly get, or simply given up his sword.

"It's not the _only _thing."

Then, a jangled blur of movement and confusion – the cold, smooth surface of the stake was slipping, vanishing into thin air, or seemingly so; Jaedin spun around, black velvet cloak whirling; an explosion of pain, then deadening shock and numbness.

Jaedin now put his head close to his opponent's ear and murmured, for Arranus' ears alone, "But only when it _touches_ me – otherwise, it is just as deadly to _you_."

And he stepped away, as the very quickly expiring Dark Realm general dropped to his knees, and then fell backwards onto the cobblestones beneath their feet – the end of the silver stake jutting out of his chest, embedded in his heart.

The vampyre coolly readjusted his leather gauntlets.

Before he had even had time to turn from his fallen enemy, however, a sudden, searing flash of fury and terror ripped through his head, nearly blinding him, and he heard a scream shatter the night air, a voice shrieking in his head: _JAEDIN!_

Elowyn.

If he had thought himself war-like before, he now went utterly beyond that.  His beloved, somewhere within the fortress, was being assaulted and – although she fought back like an enraged wyvern – her foes were too many for her to surmount.  A thick, red rage filled his mind, pumping itself through his veins until he could hear nothing but the rush of the blood in his own ears, and her echoing calls to him.  

Jaedin tore through the darkened courtyards and walkways of the Academy, not stopping until he suddenly came upon the battlefield that was just beyond the chasm that separated the fortress from the lands beyond it.  The struggle had wreaked its damage there as well, and now it appeared that most of the fighters had brought themselves out onto the field.

"_ELOWYN_!"

At the thunderous shout from the dark figure across the bridge, the Skullex who were dragging Elowyn towards their waiting comrades stopped: frozen by sudden consternation at the depths of fury within that single call.  Elowyn's eyes widened, with both hope and dread, as she instantly recognized Jaedin's form.  

The leader of her antagonists, however, soon regained his grasp of reality; seizing her arm, just below the elbow, he whirled her around, pinning against him so roughly that she felt a white-hot pang go through her entire arm.  Then he called out, in his rough, harsh voice to the vampyre who stood upon the bridge, facing them.

"Do you wish to have the White One?" he asked.  

He grabbed a fistful of her hair with his other merciless hand, jerking her head up until her neck cried out to her at the ungracious angle that it had been subjected to. 

"Then come _get her_!"

"Release her now, and I will send you and your men back to your Queen," the vampyre said, slowly stalking towards them.

The Skullex merely laughed: loudly and raucously.

"I think not!  You are over-confident, Shadow-Master – her very air speaks of the stars, of the light, and it is such a one that our Lady has commanded us to bring back to her.  She remains with _us_."

Jaedin now stood within ten feet of them, separated from them by nothing more than the heaps of mangled bodies and war-gear.  

"I tell you a final time – _release her now_."

"Or what?" the Skullex mocked.  Then, to further torment the one whom they took to be merely her would-be rescuer, he raised his dagger's blade to her throat—

Elowyn did not have time to so much as blink, for at that very moment, a cataclysm sundered the very night air.  Jaedin raised both arms towards the skies, and then brought their hands crashing back down towards the earth.

A shockwave of glowing gray light appeared, seemingly out of the sky itself, and blasted out towards them, with a noise that sounded as if the earth itself was groaning.  The ground began to rock, tumultuously, violently, beneath their feet, and Elowyn felt the hands that held her slacken their hold.  She turned 'round, wondering why, and screamed as she saw the Skullex melting into dust, one by one, each shrieking horribly; their captain reached out towards her, but she was already out of his reach, falling to the rumbling earth.  

All around her, mind-shattering destruction was occurring: the gray wave went out from the black figure who had caused it, _who had called it into being_, and shot out into the very furthest reaches of the battlefield.  Everyone who had been standing was now sent to their feet, as vicious tremors rolled out towards them.  She felt his arms coming around her, making her stand even as the earth shook, and she closed her eyes, willing herself to be lost in the depths of his black cloak, in the warmth of his embrace, as the noise reached its climax—

Then, nothing.

*                       *                       *

On the battlefield, nothing remained but the remains of the previously slain fighters, twisted and broken bits of weaponry and whatnot, and heaps of fine, gray-tinted dust that the quiet night wind swirled around in the air.

All was utterly silent.

Jaedin raised Elowyn in his arms, as she clung to him, and, utterly drained and exhausted by the great power that he had just exerted, managed to take the few steps that were necessary to bring them over to a toppled chariot.  Then, he fell to his knees, and they both rolled to the ground.

The battle was over; only silence and the stars remained now.

*                       *                       *

**A/N:**  Hmm…how's for some battle action, and a whole bit of Jaedin/Elowyn interaction…'tis too much fun, I tell you…onwards, again…


	34. Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty-One –

To the Black Gate

_When all the world is destined to come to darkness, what will you do…?_

Jaedin groaned softly as he swam back up out of the black void of unconsciousness, slowly becoming aware of sound, touch, and his other senses once again.  

There was a strong smell of herbs in the air, such as were used in medicine and in scenting the stale air of a sick room, and he could tell that the warm light of a candle – or a lamp, was it? – was somewhere nearby him, even through his closed eyelids.

It became obvious to him, in that moment: he was no longer on the battlefield. 

He also perceived that he was lying upon a bed of some sort, and that he no longer wore his torn and stained black silk shirt, cloak, and leather breeches.  Even his boots had been removed, and in their place, he felt crisp linen against his skin, the comforting smoothness of a sheet and blanket on top of it.  There was movement about him, and the murmuring of carefully lowered, gentle voices every now and then.

Now fully unable to bear remaining lying down with his eyes closed for a moment longer, the Dark Lord of Sytherria opened his eyes and raised himself on one elbow, his head turning slowly upon his preternaturally graceful neck as he gazed about himself, taking in his surroundings.

Indeed, this was no battlefield; it appeared that he and Elowyn had been removed from their collapsed position in the shelter of the wrecked chariot, by some of their comrades – though he knew not whom.  

The princess, he saw, lay on a bed that had been placed across from his, a little ways off.  She was sleeping soundly, her curls flowing in a shining golden burst across the white pillowcase that her head rested upon; she had one of her hands under her head, curled up into a fist just below her chin, and her cheeks were flushed rosily in the cheerful lamplight.  He let his gaze remain upon her for a little while then, content to simply watch her sleep.

The room that they were in, he surmised, was one of the more or less undamaged chambers within the Academy.  It appeared that it might have once been a dormitory for the young students, but had now been converted into a sort of infirmary in the wake of the battle.  He marked that he and Elowyn were not the only inhabitants of the place – on the other beds nearby lay the figures of the wounded, with healers and nurses moving in and out of the early morning shadows, tending to various needs.

Jaedin lay back upon the bed, as a slight dizzy wave rolled over him.

The battle…  

He'd destroyed Arranus; that, at least, put his heart at ease – knowing that one of his most despised enemies had been obliterated…then he had sensed that Elowyn was in danger, and had gone to her aid.  Skullex had been attempting to drag her off, even as the dark army began its retreat…or had they been moving back, only to rally together for a final, devastating attack?  He didn't know – and he hadn't left himself, or anyone else, time to guess.  

Before his very eyes, he had seen Elowyn mistreated in a way that had turned the blood within his veins to white-hot magma.  And without a moment's further thought, he had brought all of his powers to bear and summoned a killing force that had wiped out the entire enemy army.  

Each of the Academy's defenders had survived; he'd made certain of that before calling down the blast of power from the blackened night sky.  They had all been sent falling to the ground by the cataclysmic force of the shockwave, but none had been directly harmed.  

The effort of it, however, had taken almost all of his strength.  Turning against the Queen who held the essence of his life in her hands was not without its repercussions, as he well knew, but he had had no choice.  This time, though, he was not about to struggle against it.  

Sometimes, a single choice was all one could be afforded, and it meant death otherwise.  He wouldn't have risked that.  

Not now.

As he lay there, motionless and deep in thought, he turned his head upon the pillow and looked across at Elowyn.  

Still, she slept.

It was early in the morning, he ascertained from the gray rectangle that was in the stone wall across the room from him.  Dawn had not yet arisen, but somehow he felt in his heart that they would see none of the bright rays of the sun that day.  A bleak day, for the mind-numbing aftermath of a horrific battle.  Jaedin had seen battlefields before – oh, so many! – but this morning, he knew that he would not be able to face well the sight of the destruction that lay just beyond the walls of his current dwelling.  

Around him, even within this room that appeared to be relatively undisturbed, he could see the markings of the battle when he took a moment to look at it – here and there, he glimpsed burn marks on the book shelves, gashes in the wooden bed legs and headboards, shattered panes in the glass windows.  Evidence of a terrible struggle was everywhere, and he could not escape from it.  A battle had been fought, and good had triumphed – but at a high price.

When he closed his eyes, he could still hear the screams, the high-pitched, pitiful screams of frightened children and the cries of the wounded…

He chose not to close his eyes anymore.

As he sat up, stiffly, on his bed, an Elven healer took note of his movement and began to approach him.  Jaedin straightened, proudly and rigidly: still unwilling for the people who had so long been his enemies to see that he was markedly drained of both strength and power.  _I must reach the Black City, and within days…_

The Elf came to stand beside him, looking down into the Dark Lord's violet-flecked gray eyes.  He was tall and fair of face, this Elf – as most of the magic-gifted and immortal Sentient races happened to be – with unlined, lightly tanned skin that almost seemed to give off an unnatural, ethereal golden glow, piercing blue eyes, and sleek, long strawberry-blond hair that he wore braided back, warrior-style.  

Right now, those bright blue eyes crinkled a bit at their sides as their owner smiled, cheerfully but gently, and greeted the awakened patient—

"So you have awakened!" 

Then he made a courteous bow and introduced himself: "I am Liowaihr.  I trust your sleep has restored you – how do you feel this morning, my lord?"

At this, the vampyre's regal, handsome face took on a sour twist, and he grumbled, "Very stiff, and not quite myself, thank you."

Impervious to the terseness and – it must be said – the _rudeness_ of that blunt, borderline caustic reply, the Elf merely smiled again and said, "Ah, but I _do_ believe that we have just the thing here for that." 

And he went across the room to a small table, returning with a tall glass in one hand, which he held out to Jaedin.  The vampyre's eyes gleamed at him, filled with skepticism and even tad bit distrust.

"Before you even _start_ to think that I'm actually going to _drink_ this," Jaedin said, slowly and convincingly, "I'd like you to tell me what it is.  _Exactly_."

The Elf's grin widened, and he revealed, laughingly, "Only an unheated draught of tea that we make here at the Academy, courtesy of a recipe that one of our previous Healer graduates came up with several decades ago.  It is mainly employed as a restorative, and I assure you, it won't do you any harm – you must drink the whole thing, however, for it to affect your system."

Jaedin raised a still disbelieving eyebrow, but took the glass and tipped his head back to do as he was wished to.  As he did so, Liowaihr added, as an afterthought, "But you might not like the taste of it very much."

Well, the Dark Lord _didn't_.  

However the 'restorative tea' was made, the end result wasn't _quite_ the typical stereotype of tea.  It reminded Jaedin of a mixture of eucalyptus and gooseberries, with a heavy cream and sage tea, and a liberal dose of finely-chopped – was it _parsley leaves_? – herbs added in as well.  When the healer gave his warning, it was already too late for him to avoid the nasty surprise, and he was obliged to swallow down the whole glassful.  

The horrid deed done, he pushed the glass into his tormentor's hands and gasped in the air, glaring at the Elf resentfully.  Before he could rasp out any sort of biting remark, however, he became aware of the fact that someone was looking at him in vast amusement, and then he heard her laugh from behind him.  Liowaihr's blue eyes were dancing as his gaze slid over Jaedin's shoulder and to the person who was now sitting up in her bed beyond them.

"You'd better be glad that it doesn't take an effect right away," came her sweetly melodious voice then, full of merry laughter, and Jaedin swung around to face her, as the Healer Elf bowed and backed away, respectfully.  

Then Jaedin and his princess were left alone – or relatively alone, as their side of the infirmary had fewer inhabitants than the other side.  Elowyn's smile now held only tenderness and affection as she gazed into his face, knowing and cherishing the familiar sight of each feature, each contour and detail.  

Her eyes, though, beneath their immediate shimmering green surface, held a depth of both sorrow and pain within them, and he was immediately out of his bed, taking the single step that was required to bring him to her side, seating himself beside her on the edge of her bed.  She crumbled against him, softly beginning to sob, as he wrapped his arms around her, rocking the both of them back and forth, gently but desperately running his fingers through her silky pale gold hair as he murmured his name for her over and over again.

"_Merron nenein, sahk-ta su aman_…" 

Then, further in his own tongue, "_Alya evis li varyor; neztim ghalor, lairata…_Hush now dear sweet one; the nightmare is flown, weep not…"

"They've died; so many of those innocent little ones, so many of the brave ones who fought for them…" she whispered, her breath hot against the skin of his chest where the collar of his white linen nightshirt exposed it. "Is _this _what we are struggling for, Jaedin…a world where _everything_ will come to death?  I can't stop thinking of them – I dreamed of them so many times in the night…so many horrible, bloody dreams…"

"Shh." 

He raised a finger to her lips, silencing her. 

"The world is destined for an end other than death – much _better_ than death, and _you_ know this, in your heart, Elowyn.  You mustn't let fall tears of despair, precious one: the sky threatens to weep along with you, when it should _not_.  The suffering of the wounded and even the deaths of the innocent have not been in vain – they are not without cause.  You know this as well."

Taking all this in, she inhaled: long and slowly, and he rearranged his hold on her, so that he was leaning against the pillow-mounded headboard, supporting the both of them.  As his habit had become in moments of idle, distracted thought, his fingers ran through her hair, with an expert deftness that lulled her into serenity again.  

At length, she turned her head, resting the side of her face against his collarbone so that her head was directly under his chin – fitting there as if it had always been meant to, from the very beginnings of time…

"Jaedin?" she murmured.

"Mmm…" was his only reply, and, as she looked up at him, into his sharply formed profile, she saw that his gaze had become distant.

"What are we meant for, you and I?"

It was a question that had an obvious answer, and she knew it – but, perhaps, right at that moment, she wasn't looking for the most obvious answer.

And he didn't give it to her.

"Forever, Princess," he told her, as he bent his head to softly brush his lips against her pale, cold brow: feeling her skin flush warm beneath his touch, which fueled his desire to kiss her, which he did – simply, and sweetly.  Elowyn's arms went around his neck, pulling him closer to her, and then they were silent for a long while.

Then…

"That is what we are meant for – _forever_."

*                       *                       *

As was common in times of war, when a battle had been fought but the destruction of those who fought for good had been averted, a time of rebuilding and regeneration would now begin.  The Academy had been violently ravaged, inside and out, and the marks of the fierce struggle that had taken place at it would remain for long, perhaps even many years, even with the aid of faery and Elven powers.

The restoration process had already begun by the time that Elowyn and Jaedin found their way out of the healing room and went in search of their friends.  Everywhere around them, they saw the survivors of the battle occupied both with treating the wounded, clearing off the debris and wreckage, and tending the dead.  

The bodies of the enemy army were carted out to the wide field where a good part of the latter half of the battle had taken place, after the death of the dark army's general, and soon a great cloud of smoke rose into the sky, as torches were set to the corpses.  The remains of those who belonged to the Academy were preserved and then sent to the four winds as ashes from the funeral pyres, as was the White Realm's way.

On the parapet that overlooked the chasm separating the Academy from the lands beyond it, a group of faeries and elves stood: watching the twin columns of smoke drift into the gray clouds overhead.  All were silent, and solemn with deep and profound grief, and knowledge of what was to come.  Their comrades who had fallen within the battle, it was widely thought then, were the fortunate ones.  They would not have to remain in the world as it turned to the imminent war between good and evil.

But at least five of those figures upon the wall knew that, come what may in the course of the war, the world would _not_ be cast to the darkness.

Jaedin stood beside Elowyn, one arm draped about her slender waist: holding her close to his side, as their cloaks – hers dark red, his black – snapped as one in the wind.  Both gazed out over the plains beyond them, and both knew that they were thinking of the same thing – of the treacherous mountain landscape of the region that they would be forced to enter in the course of their quest.  With them, on either side, stood their loyal comrades: Robbie, Sala, and Brendan, with a few other members of the Academy.  

Many had been killed in the hours of the night past – children, youths, commoners and royalty, the wicked and the upright.  The cruel hand of Death had made no distinction between species, age, rank, or form.

And now they had the day to face.

One by one, the figures began to leave their place at the wall, as the smoke from the funeral pyres began to clear away.  Then, all whom were left were the original five adventurers, who would now turn their minds to the future.

Brendan spoke first, saying the words that Elowyn's friends knew had to be said. 

"Our quest has come to a single choice, yet again," he said, looking at first Jaedin, and then Elowyn, directly in the eyes. "For we cannot now all continue on it together – it is needed that a warning be carried to those of our comrades who do not yet know that the war has, at last, begun.  Yet we cannot abandon our journey to the Black City, for we cannot risk the sundering of the lands of magic and enchantment from the lands of mortality.  What is our course?"

Then there was silence.

"I will continue on to the Dark Gate, and then to the Black City, with the Princess Elowyn – if she will go with me," Jaedin said, in a low voice. "We will retrieve the binding spell together, and then I will return her to the White Realm."

And somehow, as Elowyn heard those words, she sensed that he did not mean to accompany her there; her heart began to quail within her.  _No!  Jaedin, I will not live without you – you must not ask me to!_

But Brendan was nodding in assent; her other friends did likewise.

"You are the only ones of us who can enter there without risking great danger, though it would seem otherwise, owing to the words of the Prophecy," he replied. "Very well then – this is your quest, and ours shall be to return through the lands of Elvendome and our other allies, and alert them to the coming attacks."

Jaedin nodded and bowed, his eyes dark and expressionless.  He reached to take Elowyn's hand, drawing her along with him as he stepped away.

"Go with the will of the Three," he said, and Brendan nodded to him.

"And you as well."

Then Jaedin briefly released her hand, allowing Elowyn to run forward and embrace her friends, as it finally became clear to her that she might not see any of them again, might not be able to touch them or hold them or speak to them again, for a very long time.  

And this frightened her almost more than becoming aware of the aftermath of the battle – _though not as much as something else…_

Unable to bear the pain of such separation for a moment longer, she quickly released them and then returned to Jaedin, her fingers wrapping around his with a savage intensity that revealed to him well just what state her mind and heart were in.  

They looked back at their companions once again, and left the wall.

Bereft of the speedy transport of the _Apocalypse_, which was – even as they readied themselves for departure – returning the students to their homes, where they would remain with their families until they could be called back to their studies, Jaedin and Elowyn would have to once again travel on horseback.  

Or so they thought.        

As they scraped together provisions and the necessary supplies for their journey, which would take them back into Sytherria, over the deserts until they reached the Dark Gate, the pair were surprised by not one but two remarkable gifts from the heads of the school.  The first was a pair of the legendary Seven League Boots: given to them by none other than Orlando and Arielle, who had acquired them in the first place from a marauding giant, some time before.  

Arielle warned them, however, "The power within them will only last for so long; as there are two of you for them to carry, they will soon wear out, and you will have to wait until they have regained their magic-potency.  _Travel_ _wisely_."

Next, there were two invisible cloaks.  Orlando handed one to Jaedin: Arielle giving the other to Elowyn, as the faery prince told them, "These will make you virtually undetectable by any eyes, even those of the Ebony Queen.  Even whatever noise you make, whatever you touch or move, no one will see, or sense."

Then Elowyn and Jaedin bade them all farewell, and made their way together out of the Academy, pausing only when they stood on the other side of the abyss that spanned between it and the mountain-lined plains.  Elowyn felt a knot rising in her throat, but she quickly swallowed it.  

Hope: hope _always_ remained.  

This would not be the end; she would see her friends again, and, in the meantime, she would do everything that she could to save them.  She could only pray that she would have the strength, the faith, to carry on.

And somehow, as she looked at Jaedin, she sensed that she would.

_Ironic as that might have seemed…_

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, cracking a bit of a wry smile that was surely his attempt to make her laugh, to prod and tease her out of her grief.

"Shall we, Princess?" he asked, and she _did_ smile.

Her Dark Lord was simply irresistible.

"Indeed, we shall, Dark One."

Scarcely two minutes later, they were forty-nine leagues away.

*                       *                       *

_I am everywhere, and I am nowhere – _

_You have me within you, but you cannot see me._

_What am I?_

Jaedin gave a snort of laughter, shaking his head in wry amusement.

"That's simple," he said, in his most superior manner. "It's _Air_."

The Seven League Boots had lost their power several hours before, and it was now mid-afternoon.  Jaedin and Elowyn had elected to simply walk while waiting, instead of sitting around idly, and, oddly enough, they'd fallen into firing various riddles back and forth at one another.  

Elowyn, piqued by the vampyre's all-knowing air – and the fact that he had managed to give her the answer to each one of her riddles within seconds of her speaking them – eyed him narrowly, as she said, "You're either cheating, or you simply know too much – the only reason why I haven't figured out any of yours right off is because _I've_ not been alive for five hundred thousand years."

"Or you might consider that I am merely talented," he replied, slyly, shooting her the look out of the corner of his eye that sent thrills up and down her spine.

However, there was a question of honour at stake here.  

She held her chin up, proudly, and requested that he give her his own riddle.  Jaedin halted, pausing them in their walk through the vast wood that they had now found themselves within, and considered for a moment.  

He nearly blended in with the dark trees with his black attire, as he stood against the trunk of a particularly mammoth evergreen, which would have taken the arms of at least eleven full grown men to span.  Elowyn was silent, patiently waiting, as she watched him think.  She'd have to give him time, if she wanted her riddle.

Finally, then, he put one to her.

"Once, two dwarves happened to walk into a tavern somewhere.  Sometime in their past, they had both done something to markedly offended the owner and barkeep, to such a degree that he – upon seeing them – decided to have his vengeance.  Both dwarves requested the exact same beverage, and were served at the exact same time.  Neither of the tumblers was different _in any way_.  However, just as the pair was getting up to leave the tavern, one of the two fell down and was, in a moment, pronounced dead by his astonished companion.  Now, Princess," and he turned to her, his dark left eyebrow arching as his well-known smirk curved his lips, "How did he meet with his death?"

Elowyn took a moment to mull over the story.  

Then, with lightning-fast quickness of wit, she revealed, "He was poisoned."

Jaedin's gray eyes gleamed a bit, in exultation.

"And how is this so?"

She made a gesture that brushed off the mysteriousness of the whole scenario, and told him, "The barkeep put poison into the ice that was in both of their tankards; however, the first dwarf downed his drink before the ice had had time to melt, whereas his companion waited.  The poison only affected the second dwarf, who died whilst his companion lived to a ripe old age of a hundred and eighty years."

Then, she paused for thought, her green eyes sparkling with impishness.

"And the mean old barkeep lost all his business soon afterwards, when it was discovered that he kept an assortment of poisons – and not just the kind employed for dispensing with rats – underneath the cabinet in the kitchen.  He was forced to go earn a living threshing in the fields, and was never heard of again."

"You have my applause, Princess.  I hold a great and profound respect for your storytelling skills," her companion told her, with a subtly arrogant tilt of his head: looking down at her with an air of appraising delight.

"Now, my friend," Elowyn continued, after shooting him a look that half said _Watch it_, and half invited him to say more, "I have what I think may be a more perplexing riddle for you.  You are traveling along a road when you come to a fork in it.  Here, two old bearded men stand: identical in appearance, but you know that they are different inwardly, for one of them will always tell the truth, and the other will always lie, although you do _not_ know what man always lies and what man always tells the truth.  Now, you wish to learn which road will lead you to your destination, and which way will lead you to your doom – which of the men will you ask?"

Jaedin shrugged, haughtily.

"Neither," he replied. "I'd be too busy asking myself how the blazes I got to such a world in the first place."

Elowyn stabbed an accusing finger at him while she let the air ring with her clear, girlish laughter that was like the pealing of silver bells.

"You just don't want to answer the question!" she surmised.

"I never said that."

"You didn't _have_ to."

Jaedin made a low growling noise in the back of his throat, glaring at her – playfully, so, but with enough of a convincing depth to make her back away a bit, casting about for a way to evade him.

"You mock me – I warn you, Princess, that is _not_ wise."

But she only danced further out of his reach, beaming like a pixie at him all the while, as she sang back to him, "Wise?  When have I _ever_ been wise?  I am only a youngster in the eyes of my kin; I am not expected to be _wise_ yet…"

And they journeyed further into the forest.

The trees here were truly remarkable.  Thick and tall they grew all about the pair of travelers: gigantic and dark in girth with their branches grown so tall that they seemed like to pierce the sky, although neither Jaedin nor Elowyn could catch a true glimpse of the heavens above themselves for all they were worth.  However, here and there were patches of sunlight upon the bright green ground, warm golden shards that glanced down through the heavy shadows, exposing hints of the forest floor.  

Jaedin, although Elowyn did not know it, had his hand on his sword hilt at all times.  

They were drawing near to Sytherria; he could sense the slowly changing atmosphere of the land about them, and he knew that the forests that stretched from Elvendome into his own land were not to be trusted.  In Sytherria, even the simplest flora and fauna could become dangerous.  Which was why, right at that moment, he was becoming increasingly aware of just how far the seemingly harmless five feet that separated him from Elowyn was beginning to feel to him.  His sense of premonition was pounding at him.

"Princess…"

She turned, pale golden curls whirling about her with her movement, and he caught his breath at her beauty, even as he beckoned for her to come back to him.  As she did, obediently, he reached out and took her hand in his, instantly relieved – and exhilarated – by the feel of her small, slender fingers against his palm.

"We should not go far apart now," he warned her, all playfulness and teasing having left his tone. "These woods are not safe – we draw near to Sytherria."

She nodded, understanding.

"Then I shall remain close to you."

They journeyed on for a long while in silence then, listening to the almost oppressively heavy silence in the forest around them.  Jaedin had never been overtly fond of darting dragonflies and pastel-hued butterflies, softly spotted fawns and does, or croaking frogs and noisy splashing beavers, but right at that moment, he would have given nearly anything to hear some noise – to see some movement – other than that caused by himself and his companion.  

He glanced to the side and saw that Elowyn's eyes had begun to droop closed a bit, and he felt her grip becoming slack in his hand.  

With that, he stopped them.

"I think, sweet one," he told her, "That we ought to pause here for a while.  You grow weary, and I feel the weight of this forest's dead silence pulling at my own mind.  We might rest, while we wait for the boots to regain their power."

Elowyn nodded, too lost in the realm of her own thoughts and the sudden weariness that had overtaken her to object.  

So Jaedin looked about them then, searching for a good place to rest: his gray eyes finally lighting upon the curve of an enormous tree root nearby.  It sloped down on a little knoll to the ground, covered with a thick blanket of velvety emerald moss.  A shaft of sunlight had somehow managed to pierce through the thick tree branches overhead, drawing the eye to the inviting little nook.  Gently, he tugged on Elowyn's hand and led them both over to it.  

He seated himself first, spreading out his cloak so that it covered an ample portion of the ground, and then he beckoned to her again, to take a seat beside him.  

This she did, willingly enough, and soon they'd made themselves comfortable: him sitting a little further up on the slight rise in the ground, his back against the tree's rough trunk, and her curled up against him, with her head fitting perfectly into the curve between his shoulder and side.  Jaedin felt her hand moving, to slowly and shyly slide itself across his chest until it lay directly over his heart; he watched then as she closed her eyes, her lips curving a bit at the comforting beat against her palm.  

Carefully, he gathered the edge of his cloak between his fingertips and lifted it from the ground, to draw it over her: covering and shielding her from anything else that might exist in the forest.  From her silky hair drifted the calming, familiar scent of chamomile and neroli, and he savored the delicate touch of her hand on his chest, the warmth of her against him.  

He turned his gaze out into the forest.

_Nothing will harm her while I am here,_ he told it: fully meaning the words as an unbreakable, solemn vow.  _Nothing will sunder me from her side.  I am here._

And then he began to keep watch over the forest, while his princess slept.

*                       *                       *

Hours later, Elowyn awakened.  Around her, she could still see the pale drifts of sunlight splashing down onto the bright green grass, and the air seemed to be filled with a sweet, musky fragrance and calm that nearly sent her back to sleep again.  _Sleep,_ the forest's voice seemed to tell her.  _Close thine eyes, young one, and sleep; return unto the dreams that were spun within thy maiden heart…_

But something kept her from surrendering to it again.  She'd already been asleep for a long while – she knew not how long, but she did not truly want to return to her slumber again just yet.  

Cautiously, she lifted her head a bit, inclining it back on her neck so that she could look up at the one who held her.  

Jaedin had let his own head drop back to rest on the tree behind him, and his eyes were closed, long lashes resting softly against his skin.  How she wanted to reach out and turn his face towards her, and tenderly touch her lips to his, in that moment.  

That would wake him, though, and she knew that he needed sleep just as much as she did, if they were to continue their journey.  

At their feet, she saw the Seven League boots – as Arielle had told them, the leather soles were giving off a faint shower of sparkles, signifying that their magical power had returned to its proper strength.  But…but waking him and continuing on their journey could wait for but a little while longer; right now, she was almost as utterly happy and content as she could be.

Then, movement in the corner of her vision caught the princess's eye, and she bemusedly glanced up, casually wondering what had caused it—

Elowyn's scream wrenched Jaedin from his sleep.

In an instant he sat up, eyes snapping open, and looked towards where he sensed the cause of her terror had come from – and he immediately knew why.  The flash of dingy, matted white fur that abruptly disappeared behind the tree was all that he needed to see.  

He shot out a hand, a blast of killing power springing forth from his fingertips, but he was uncertain if it ever connected with his intended target: the menace had gone.  

Turning back to Elowyn, he found the girl in complete, and fully justifiable hysterics.  Her words tumbled over one another as she shook like a leaf in his arms, her mind utterly overthrown with fright.  "What was that thing, what was it," she was saying, her movements jerky and unpredictable as she writhed against him. "What was it, where is it; Jaedin, it looked at me, it looked at me and its eyes were full of blood, little glittering drops of blood…" and she continued to tremble violently.

Hastily, he put a hand to her forehead, splaying his fingertips out so that his entire hand covered her forehead, and briefly closed his eyes, breathing a few words in vampyric.  Then, a little tremor of invisible power went through the air, and Elowyn abruptly left off her convulsing, and looked at him, her eyes clear again.

"Jaedin," she murmured to him, seeming confused, "What happened?"

He looked at her with both relief and darkness in his eyes.

"You awakened, and saw a fell creature nearby us – it was an Ikti, a nasty two-legged carnivore of the Dark Realm, and had you not caught it there by looking at it, and then frightening it off with your scream, it might have attempted to make an end of us." 

Then he paused, drew a deep breath. 

"These woods are truly perilous, as I told you.  Elowyn, I took away your memory of it."

She stared at him, as she tried to process all of this news, still perplexed by the fact that she was now suddenly awake, and felt as if she was missing some part of her.  Then, she quickly shook her head, and focused her penetrating jade-green gaze on him again.  Jaedin gazed back, hoping that she would be able to pardon his actions.

"You can do that?" she asked him.

And he nodded.

"Only when I must."

Now he gave her his hand and assisted them both in rising; they stood there, together, for a moment amidst the tree roots, and suddenly Elowyn shivered, drawing close to him for comfort.  Upon looking with intense concentration into her own mind, she could sense the vague memory of a great, momentary terror there, but only a shadow of that memory had been left – like the impression of a footprint upon the sand at the seaside, when a wave has just washed over it.  

Whatever it was that she had seen – the Ikti, he had called it – it must have been an awful creature, in order for the mere sight of it to produce such an effect upon her.  Dissolved memory or not, she was grateful to her dark guardian for acting so quickly to aid her.

"Jaedin." 

She thrust her face against his chest again, her arms moving to wrap around his slender, hard waist underneath his cloak, squeezing tight against him.  She felt him move to do the same, and listened for a moment to the reassuring pulsations of his heart. 

"Don't ever leave me.  Stay with me, _please stay_."

He was silent for a while, and then he moved his hand to tip her chin back with his fingertips, gazing deeply and searchingly into her eyes.

"You would set yourself against them for me?" he asked her, gently.

Her eyes scanned back and forth across his face.

"I would do _anything_ for you," she swore, and he knew – then – that she meant it: meant it with the very essence, with every last strength, of her life.

He wanted to kiss her; every atom in his being cried out for him to do so, but he somehow felt, again, that he could not succumb to it, at that moment.  So, instead, he merely pulled her back to him with an ardent zeal that had never been matched by any other man to embrace her, ever.  Elowyn closed her eyes, and knew that he would never let her go.

They were together, come what may.

*                       *                       *

_Whumph!_

And the two travelers came jerking to yet another violent stop, holding onto one another as they attempted to steady themselves.  Jaedin was muttering under his breath in vampyric – then in dwarvish, and even Elvish, combining the languages as he sought to give vent to his emotions at that moment – as he grasped her arm, keeping her upright.  Finally, Elowyn looked up at him, her hair and clothing in disarray.

Traveling with Seven League Boots was never guaranteed to be easy.

Now, as they looked around themselves, they saw that they were at last nearing the fringes of the forest.  The trees around them had become noticeably smaller and fewer, and now the air was open and fresh, and they could see the twilight sky.  

It was chilly as well, and Elowyn was thankful that she wore a soft chenille jersey underneath her broadcloth shirt and woolen tunic, and that she also had her thick, hooded cloak and scarf.  When she breathed, she marked that the puffs of air from her lips showed as little clouds of steam; on the carpet of red, yellow, orange, and brown leaves that lay thickly upon the ground she could see a fringe of pale white-gray frost.

Autumn had come.

Beside her, Jaedin stirred slightly; he was looking around, coolly and impassively, at the forest that surrounded them, his gray eyes taking in everything – missing nothing.  She began to wonder if he was always aware of reality, even in his sleep…but then, something in her memory discounted that.  No, he was simply a predator: gifted with the senses and intuition of both the wolf and the dragon, and she could be safe with him as she might be with none other.

Suddenly he turned and found her staring at him.  His full lips twitched into a little smile, and she felt a blush kindle upon the apples of her cheeks.  

"Come, Princess," he said to her. "I think that it is time that we leave off the use of those abominably rough boots, and give our battered frames a chance to recover."

Then they sat down a fallen log and removed the boots: one from his right foot, and the other from her left.  They'd been able to travel a good part of the day, haphazardly lurching along the first seven, then fourteen – twenty-one – twenty-eight, and now a full one hundred forty-seven leagues.  The jerking motion with which the boots took off, dragging their wearers along after them when each step had been made, had very quickly worn upon them, however, and they had always been glad for the chance to walk, when it came.  

Not all of Sytherria, apparently, was a blazing hot desert realm.  They had crossed over the border a long while before, and yet still forest and mountains surrounded them, though the land would once again become composed of all rolling sand dunes when they came down out of the mountains.  

As they moved along, Jaedin asked her if she would hear of the country's history; they had, as they both well knew, not much else to do besides either walking in silence or conversing with one another, and she chose the latter.  Night fell over them as he revealed to her the history of the realm that he hailed from.  

Sytherria had never been united under the rule of a single ruler, he said; in fact, it had never seen any sort of monarch or royalty in all of the time of its existence.  Instead, its inhabitants, who were few and nomadic, had existed in a relatively peaceful way of life as wandering tribes until the Dark Realm had learnt of the country's advantages.  No army would dare to enter those mirage-filled, deadly wastes of sand and rock; no enemy would desire to take the time to cross the deserts.  This resulted in the building of the first Dark Gate, which was located in the north-easternmost corner of the land.  

Soon afterwards, the other eleven had been built, as the power of the Dark Realm grew in the world.  Odd it was, he noted, almost more to himself than to her, that everyone knew of when the Dark Realm first began to plague the world with its evil – and yet no one could remember when it had first come into being.

Perhaps this was because there remained very few alive who had seen its formation, in the Dark Realm or the White.

After the Dark Gate had been built, the time period where the first fracases between the rival worlds of magic and immortality had begun, bringing Sytherria into its current age, where both the Child of Prophecy and the Dark One existed.  So much time had passed, and yet so much in the world had remained the same – and so much had changed.  Where would they go now, as the events of the war escalated into open confrontations?  How would the Prophecy of World's End be fulfilled?

Neither of them could answer that question, nor did they have time to, for Jaedin suddenly stopped them both, his eyes focusing on something out in the horizon with a queer, almost frightening intensity that immediately directed Elowyn's gaze in the same direction.  She felt the very core of her being turn to ice then.

"I've never known them to move so very far…" Jaedin said, his voice a mere breathless, almost disbelieving murmur.  He shook his head, his eyes still riveted on the object in the horizon: a massive obelisk of black stone, gleaming malevolently in the last drops of the blood-red sunlight.

"There, Princess, lies our way: the Dark Gate."

Down the hill that they stood atop of, weaving their way through the trees, the craggy mountainside itself, and onto the boulder-ridden valley floor they went.  Ever nearer the huge monument drew to them, until it was looming – heavy, black, and ominous – over their heads.  

A little less than fifty feet away from it, Elowyn stopped: hanging back in sudden transfixion as she stared up at it.  

The world seemed to blur before her, and mute itself, until she could only see the smooth, slippery black surface of the great stone thing before her.  Engraved in it were runes – words in the most ancient speech of the Dark Realm, and symbols, depictions of horrible, cruel-looking evil creatures surrounding them.  The obelisk – the Dark Gate – looked down upon her, seeming to glare at her, and then mock at her, laugh at her, as if to say, _This is the one whom you have sent to defeat the powers that are held beyond me?  This child is the one whom we of the most ancient days are to fall down on our faces before, into the dust, and fear?  Who are you to come before us, little mouse?  Behold: even my majesty is naught but that of a gate!  You will never overcome the darkness that lies in the world I guard!_

"_Elowyn_."

And she felt that voice, the one that spoke her name so gently – but also so firmly – dragging her out of the abyss of hopelessness and despair that the very sight of the awful gate to the lands of evil had brought upon her.  Her soul cried out for rescue, even as she was pulled out of the mire, the black waves that threatened to drown her beneath their inky surface.  She looked into the eyes of the dark figure that stood before her.

The shadow was waiting.

"Come," he said, and she obeyed.  

The pair of magical cloaks were swept out from their hiding places, and within seconds, both Elowyn and Jaedin were rendered completely invisible, to even the most discerning power-gifted eye, although they could see one another, and everything else around them.  Then Jaedin pulled forth from his robes an object that he had long kept hidden, even through his torture in the city of the vampyre-slayers.

It was a key, inscribed with the same runes that were graven upon the wall of the gate.  Made of black stone it was as well, and as he led her by the hand towards the enormous structure, Jaedin revealed to her how it would be used.  

As he had told her long before, the only way that anyone could enter the Dark Realm was through one of the Dark Gates, and the only way that a Dark Gate could be opened was by the use of a key.  Only the most powerful members of the world of evil could keep a key in their possession; Jaedin himself had once had a key himself, before he had departed from the Ebony Queen the last time, to go in search of his quarry, the Princess Elowyn.  Then, Zaschaea had taken away his key, and Jaedin had had to search long and hard for another one – for he knew that many of the previous owners of those very objects had been killed, the keys themselves lost within the mortal world.  The little creature from Isiravadad, Xinth, had somehow come across one such thing, and Jaedin had taken note of it.  

Now they had that key, and they could enter into the Dark Realm.

And so, with a last glance at one another – a look of resolution and determination, uncertainty and fervent hope, and a whole universe of less definable emotions – the two went forward, and Jaedin slid the key into the lock on the front of the obelisk.

Immediately, as soon as he had done this, the ground beneath them began to shake, and he hastily pulled them beneath the arch of the gate, where they stood as tremors went through the air beneath their feet, and a great blast of noise washed over them.  Elowyn saw that the scenery of the land beyond them had begun to blur, and on their other side, a new picture was beginning to form.

Then, within seconds, the Black City was before them.

Jaedin reached forward and removed the key from the gate, once again placing it somewhere within his black robes.  The place they now saw before them was not entirely unlike _Dranthiris-Ankhar_ – a vast fortress of black stone it was, towering on the pinnacle of a mountain over a veritable maze of lava, boiling in chasms beneath the sundered earth.  The sky above them was a mélange of seething black and blood red clouds: wicked, splaying fingers of lightning cracking from within it every so often.  Filling the grounds of the castle were the servants of the Ebony Queen: evil creatures and beings of every possible species, size, and shape, all virulent and malicious.  

The knowing, unsurprised smirk in the vampyre's lips was unmistakable as he looked down upon all of this.

"She's wasted no time at all in readying her people for the war," he said, softly, and Elowyn was reminded of just how deadly he could be, even when he made utterly no sound at all.  The look in his eyes made her shiver. 

"All evil has been called here."

So the Ebony Queen had united all of the Dark Realm under her rule after all, then.  At first, Elowyn had only heard of this as a rumor, a dreaded story that was told in circulating whispers, that she would bring the masses of evil together, and send them forth at her behest, to end the world as it was.  

And now it had come to pass.

Jaedin wrapped his fingers about her wrist, gently but inexorably pulling her after him as he stepped out from beneath the gateway.  His booted feet no imprint whatsoever on the black sand that covered the pathway that they stood upon, high above the magma-riddled ground.  No sound that they could make, no movement that they could make, nothing that they could do, would be seen.  They were hidden beyond the power of words to tell, even more elusive than ghosts.

"Now, Princess," his dry, elegant voice drifted to her through the unbearably hot air that seemed to burn: smelling of sulfur with each breath she took. "I shall show you to a bastion within this accursed place, where your White Realm's binding spell is held."

Then he led her along those narrow pathways that had been carved into the mountainsides, perched so precariously over the fiery depths below, and they passed by horrible things – living and inanimate – that she had to close her eyes against the sight of.  Never again would she ever truly desire to call up the memory of her first sojourn into the very heart of the lands of evil.

But it would not be the last time that she would go there.

After what seemed almost an eternity of walking through the Black City, Jaedin led her up to an arched doorway that was located in a remote, almost hidden side of the castle there.  The doorway itself was heavily cloaked in shadows, and she soon realized that it was barred, and locked.  

"Jaedin, we cannot go further…" she whispered, but then he held up a hand, with his characteristic smirk, and placed his free hand flat onto the black panels of the door, his eyes moving to rivet themselves on it.  Elowyn stood by and waited, uncertain of what he was about to do.  Suddenly, then, his hand disappeared – it went through the door!

Then he beckoned to her.

"I must hold you very close to me now, Princess," he murmured in her ear, his breath warm and tickling, "For, although I do have other reasons to desire it, that is the only way that I may take us both through the door."

Vampyres, she realized, as they passed right through the thick wooden door, could 'ghost' themselves – transform their living bodies into a wraith-like version of themselves, in order to pass through solid, otherwise impenetrable surfaces.  And, if the vampyre was powerful enough and the other person held closely enough, he could even bring a companion along with them.

Now they were standing within a wide hallway with a tall ceiling, and – to Elowyn's sudden consternation – many black-cloaked and sinister figures moved about within it.  

But before she had time to balk at this newest fear-inducing thing, Jaedin had placed his hand in the small of her back, and was propelling her forward, without further hesitation or apology.  There was no need for fear, she told herself over and over again; _they cannot see us.  Even if we were to pass through the very throne room of the Ebony Queen herself, she would not…_

And then they were standing in the midst of the very court of the Queen, and before them, seated in her throne of twisted black metal, was Zaschaea herself.  

Elowyn halted, staring – for the first time – into the face of she who would have ended her life.

The Ebony Queen was unquestionably beautiful: tall and statuesque, with skin of pure alabaster white, small, graceful hands, a long, swan-like neck, and a face of remarkable fairness, each feature sculpted out of seeming perfection.  Her lips were stained the colour of scarlet rose petals, and blood: a vivid contrast against the uninhibited jet of her sleek hair, piled on top of her head and studded with many jewels, an impressive, ornate headdress crowning her in glory.  Her gown was imposing and regal, flowing from her feet onto the steps of the dais that led up to her throne, and as Elowyn watched, her flame-lit eyes – the only seemingly wrong thing about those flawless features at all – roved across her court.

Jaedin stood at her side, watching his princess's reaction to her first sight of the Queen whom he had once so passionately served – and then turned against for the seemingly unattainable love of a faery princess, beloved of the sea and the Light.

"So that is your Queen," Elowyn murmured.

But he shook his head, drawing her after him as he turned their course in the direction of the chamber where he knew Zaschaea would be keeping the binding spell that she had had one of her minions steal from Avalennon, while he was distracted defending the life of his worst enemy.

"No," he said, as they passed along the people-filled hallways of the Queen's palace, "She is not my Queen.  There is only one who holds such sway as that over my life – and my heart – and I will not relinquish that place to anyone, do what they might."

And Elowyn knew in her own heart that the one of whom he spoke was she.  

On through the black palace they went, passing through room and corridor until they came to the foot of a long, dark stairway that wound 'round and 'round, up lightless passageway, to whatever chamber was at its top.  Up this stairwell he took them, guiding them into the blackness with expert care, and finally, they reached its end.  They came out into a torch-lit, mausoleum-like chamber, in the center of which was a tall stone table.  

And on the top of this stone table was the bound manuscript of the spell that served as the binding between the White Realm and the mortal world, the same spell that could also – when its powerful effects were reversed – forever sunder the two.

*                       *                       *

That day, the Dark Realm lost the second advantage that it might have ever had against the White Realm, its enemy.  No being within the Black City would soon learn of the loss, and by the time that anyone _did_ make that discovery, the two who had spirited the stolen spell away would be far out of reach.

But Jaedin and Elowyn's time together was far from an end, for now there was before them, although they knew it not, an ordeal that would test the limits of their very minds…

And, more significantly, the strength of the bond that had grown between them…

*                       *                       *

**A/N:**  *singsong voice* I'm not telling… *grins at readers* Oh don't look at me like that!  You know I never let you hang for long; nor do I torture you all that incredibly badly. ^_~ Everything will come to light soon.  BTW, before we race on to the next chapter, look for our Healer Elf – Liowaihr – in later adventures of the next set of Travelers of Enchantment.  I couldn't resist inventing him as a character, and then further playing around with the idea…    


	35. Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty-Two –

Sunset of the World

If one were to stand high upon the outer wall of Avalennon at the hour of nightfall, one would immediately be transfixed by the splendid and peerless beauty that filled the sky with a glorious myriad of widely varying colours.  However, the spellbinding sunset brought to mind only one thing, in the eyes of all who dwelt within the White Realm—

_War.  _

Never before, only in the most recent days, had the sun died in the horizon with such a stark, glaring end.  Its red crescent, edged by the darkened tops of the trees, was of the exact hue as blood; this was a portent of the days to come.

Orandor Raven-Helm stood alone upon the wall, looking out over the realm that he had, for so many countless years, served as ruler over.  His piercing, thoughtful gray eyes scanned diligently – in repetition of a watch that he had kept many times before – over the landscape that surrounded him: the forest, the grounds of the faery stronghold, and Avalennon's shining white walls themselves.  

There was so much good here: so much perfection and noble beauty, standing forth proud and strong in the waning light…how could it be that just over the shimmering magical barrier between the worlds, an evil beyond comprehension waited, lurking like some voracious predator?  He had long been unable to believe in the reality of such evil, in the days of his youth, but now – now, as he stood upon the wall and gazed out over his beloved kingdom, he knew that the darkness would soon sweep over the land again.  

And the forces of good would be forced to combat it.

He heard a soft step on the marble terrace behind him and halfway turned, holding out his hand as his wife came to stand beside him.  Together, then, they looked out over the land, and were silent.  Finally, Orandor spoke.

"The sky runs with blood again."

Vahlada nodded, her cornflower blue eyes distant and, if one were to look closely, filled with a quiet, gentle sadness.

"Indeed, it does," she agreed. "But it comforts my heart to know that the one who will one day end the suffering and death that the darkness has caused in our world, and that of the mortals, is also looking out at the same sky."

_Elowyn._

Both Orandor and Vahlada had refrained from speaking much of their impulsive and adventurous, headstrong and beautiful young daughter, in recent days, for the thoughts that remembrances of her brought to their minds were almost too painful to bear.  How many times had Vahlada silently wept herself to sleep in his arms, because of the aching void in her heart that the absence of her youngest child had caused?  And how many times had Orandor himself had to steel his mind, and heart, against the waves of doubt, uncertainty, and dread that the thought of Elowyn, somewhere out in the wilds with only her dark companion to guide her?  

The prophecy made this impossible to avoid, but the agony of separation was not something that they had been well prepared for.  One moment, Elowyn had been their carefree, venturesome daughter; the next, they had seen her wrested away from them, before their very eyes, and transformed into someone that they could neither speak to nor touch.  Cruel was the prophecy that had named her the one to bear the fate of the world upon her shoulders, with only the Dark One to accompany her!

Vahlada's head stirred against his shoulder, as they stood together on the wall in silence, arms draped about one another, and he felt a slight swell in the current of her emotions.  Her expression had become a tad bit resentful now.

"Although – and tell me if this makes me a shameless selfish woman and mother – I am not quite sure if I like the thought of my uncorrupted and innocent, unknowing child out in the wilds of the world with only a former Dark Lord as her companion."

Orandor found that he had to smile at this, as he drew her closer to him, to his side, feeling very much the way that he had when they had first affected this position together – some hundreds of thousands of years before, directly after the first major war that the White Realm had had with its age-old enemy, the world of evil.  In all truth, they looked exactly the same now as they had back then, although he knew – and doubted not that she did as well – that their inner selves had undergone many a change.

"What – you fear that Elowyn will be made the queen of some dread desert realm, and permit herself to be seated beside a wicked and unscrupulous ruler?"

Vahlada's eyes shot sharp daggers of displeasure at him, which only caused him to chuckle more: a release of mirth that made him realize just how long it had been since he had allowed himself to really laugh, and also that, dark and hopeless as the world may seem, there was _always_ hope.

"My love, my brave warrior-princess, I think that you forget yourself.  Elowyn is hardly an innocent, and, dare-I-say, _naïve_ child.  She knows her own way about the world.  No matter _what_ it flaunts in her face, I do not think that she will allow it to alter her decisions, and actions, to even the slightest degree.  You know that _we_ never could."

The faery queen's expression had to shift from irritated to accepting then, for she knew that this was true.  She shook her head from side to side, slowly, as she replied, "No – you are right, we couldn't.  But I fear for her, Orandor: I fear for her, and what her destiny may bring her.  I fear for them _both_."

"It is our place, as parents," he acceded, knowingly. "From infancy even to eternity itself, we will always bear the concern of our children's welfare in our hearts; it was deemed as right in the eyes of the blessed Three.  However, we must remember – always – that this is their destiny, and we cannot stand in its way."

"Time intimates at the trials set before them," Vahlada murmured, her gaze going back to the distant horizon: the light of the dying, red sun reflected in her eyes. "And I cannot guess how they will return to us.  There will be much to change."

Orandor nodded, fully aware of this himself.

"There will be much to forgive, and to learn," he replied. "But I am confident that they will show us the way through…for if he can learn to surmount the darkness that was himself, and she can teach herself – and him – to forgive his past sins...then surely we can.  It must be so."

_Only time can tell._

And then the pair on the wall fell silent again, standing close to one another as the gigantic crimson orb of the sun fell beneath the horizon, and the lands of magic and enchantment were cast into a blanket of darkness, of night.  Their thoughts left the White Realm itself, to concentrate on their youngest child: the daughter whom they knew was now somewhere out in the wide world, her Dark Lord at her side…

*                       *                       *

Elowyn reached out, groping within the pit-black darkness that surrounded her, feeling blind and alone.  They had traveled back through the Black City to the gate, where Jaedin had once again employed the key to open it for them, and then they had stepped inside of it together.  

This time, however, after the picture of the Dark Realm's chief city had faded as the earth groaned and rocked beneath their feet, everything had gone dark around them, and now Elowyn could neither see nor sense Jaedin's presence near her.  Refusing to let herself become frightened, she reached out again, desperately.

"Jaedin, _where are you_?"

Then his hands were taking hers, and he was slowly and gently pulling her towards him; she sensed that she was now passing through a barrier of some sort, feeling its power ripple over her, touching the core of her soul, where her awareness of all things magical was held.  

Suddenly, at the blink of an eye, the blackness was gone, and she found that they were standing at the very fringes of an exotic oasis in the middle of the Sytherrian desert.  It was still sunset around them, and a warm, playful breeze came out of the flower-scented trees behind them, to whirl about their two figures.

Elowyn turned from her companion to look at it.

"Where are we?" she now asked.

Jaedin also moved so that he was facing towards the oasis; she vaguely sensed that he had shaken his head, his attention focused on what he saw before himself.

"I do not know," he told her, his voice soft.  

She noticed, as she hadn't ever before, that his tone became incredibly quiet and melodious when he was not speaking in his normal, meant-to-be-heard manner; when he spoke like this, he seemed almost reticent and withdrawn, as if he was afraid to offend his own shadow.  

Again, he shook his head, at a loss for an exact explanation of their current whereabouts.  

"The Dark Gates behave in much of the same manner as the walls of your White Realm, Princess," he told her, and she likewise noticed that he had reverted to referring to her by her royal title, rather than her given name, again.  

This slightly troubled her.

Had he begun to rethink their accepted bond?

But he gave her no more time to think on this, for he continued: "When we entered the gate, we stepped inside of the Dark Realm – now that we have come out of it, we are in a totally different place.  I can only tell you that I am certain we are still in Sytherria…but where we are…" 

He trailed off. 

"I do _not_ know.  I have never seen this place before…I did not even know that it existed."      

She felt a chilling sense of unease then, and grasped his arm slightly, saying, "We should leave, then – Jaedin, there is something _odd_ here."

"Indeed, there _is_," he agreed, with a note of interest – more like curiosity – in his tone that put her own sense of inquisitiveness on high alert. "For I cannot get any sense of dark power about this strange, borderline random oasis that we've somehow stumbled upon, here within my very own realm, and yet I cannot also sense that there is any _good_ power here either."

And she felt a sense of this herself, finishing for the both of them, "But there is _power_ here – it is thick in the air."

Jaedin turned to her, one dark, perfectly angled eyebrow sharply curving over his eye, and she saw the engaging gleam in the silvery spheres beneath it.

"Shall we step inside then, and go in search of whatever entities created this surprising and most unexpected place?"

Well, her adventuresome side had gotten the better of her, as it almost always did; she nodded, momentary apprehensions and misgivings brushed aside, and took his hand.  Then, together they stepped off of the sand and walked into the fringes of the oasis.

Anyone would have found it difficult to describe all they saw next.  

It was a place that many souls would have seen as a paradise upon the mortal earth, filled with gorgeous specimens of nature.  Huge, brightly coloured flowers they saw all around them, with vines and ferns and gently curving palm trees serving as their shimmering green backdrop.  Waterfalls of sparkling white foam, plunging down into serene pools of crystal blue and aquamarine and turquoise they saw as well, seeming like jewels amidst the fair twilight.  

The landscape they traversed was varying: sometimes it would go on and on as a flat and heavily forested expanse, and then up the ground would abruptly climb, into rolling hills of soft, waving grasses.  The air was so heavily perfumed with the fragrance of flowers, earth, water, and air that Elowyn felt she might have cut it with the blade of one of her twin knives, if she had wanted to.

They continued to walk, still not having seen a single form of life other than the beautifully plumaged water-birds that strode in proud, halting dignity through the crystalline pools, or their loud-voiced cousins who flew in a blur of colour and sound into the air, to fly over the pair's heads into the sky, or the occasional jewel-toned insect or scurrying monkey.  

Then, as the trees began to slope downwards – alerting them of a hill ahead – gleaming white stones began to show against the sunset.

All at once, Jaedin and Elowyn found themselves looking down upon a fabulous white structure, lined by pillars and statues that were immaculately white: untouched by age or the elements.  In the middle of a huge plain it rested, set at the zenith of the oasis so that anyone who stood within it could look out over both the oasis itself and the deserts that surrounded it.  

Speechlessness took hold of them for a moment, and then Elowyn ventured, "Perhaps we may find someone who may tell us of where we are within it," referring, of course, to the palace that gleamed before them.  She hid, of course, her sudden memories of the stories she had heard about travelers who stumbled upon such fantastic places, and then met with dire fate afterwards.  However, as she was never to be swayed by fearfulness or unfounded and widely circulated rumors, she more desired to do even as she had herself suggested.

Jaedin nodded, and she felt that he was still trying to get a sense of the powers that were held within their surroundings.  He then seemed slightly disappointed, as if he had failed to do so, and – as they began to make their way down the slope together – she took note of the subtle bow in his powerful shoulders.  This reminded her of the slight darkness that had flickered through his liquid mercury eyes even as they ran to make their escape from the Black City, bearing with them the rescued binding spell.

Something wore at him, slowly and painfully drawing the very strength from his frame, and it made the trouble in Elowyn's heart intensify.  There was something wrong with him – something so deep and dark that he had seen fit to keep it hidden from her, concealing it within the depths of his soul.  

What was she seeing happen to him before her very eyes?

There was a pathway that led up to the huge white building, starting from where they now stood at the bottom of the hill.  A breeze suddenly frisked out of nowhere and stirred the carpet of scarlet petals – fallen from one of the magnificent blooming trees nearby – that had scattered over the white stone, almost seeming to breathe a single word on the air to them as it came—

_Come._

In the face of their current situation, they could only do just that – walk forward, going up to the palace-like building before them, and enter into it, in search of someone who could tell them of what exact region of Sytherria they had now found themselves in.  They would have to pass through the place, no matter what they did: its sprawling outer courts and grounds, seemingly also bereft of any life whatsoever, stretched out far in every direction.  

Entering it was unavoidable.

A long, wide flight of many stairs was now before them, the winged statues that stood on either side of the doors that led inside of the place seeming to look down on them, and assess them.  Elowyn stared back up at them, unafraid but slightly wondering.  She felt as if she and her companion were being watched.

Jaedin was already moving to knock three times, loudly and firmly, on the smooth white doors.  She came to stand beside him as they waited for an answer.

None came.

But then the breeze whirled around them again, stirring her hair and their cloaks…and both doors opened inwards, gliding aside to reveal a pillar-lined chamber: it had no ceiling, and so the red-gold and lavender twilight sky glimmered above the polished white floor.  The two travelers froze at the door, unsure of how to react.

Again, the breeze seemed to whisper to them, _Come._

And once again, they obeyed.

They saw nothing, saw no one, heard no sound but that of the breeze that was now flowing freely around them, zipping in and out of the huge room, weaving around the numerous white marble pillars.  Elowyn and Jaedin glanced at one another.

This place, whatever it was, was totally uninhabited.

*                       *                       *

On further exploration of the grounds, they made several interesting discoveries – all of which seemed to point to a previous indwelling of intelligent beings there.  The gardens and lawns that surrounded the white palace were in perfect condition, complete with artfully shaped red rose bushes and more statues, fountains and much more.  

Inside of the place they found nothing but many empty rooms, several of which – like the first chamber they had entered – had no ceiling.  It was all very unusual, and nothing like either of them had ever seen before.  

In silence, Elowyn brushed aside the petals and leaves that had somehow scattered on top of an altar-like piece of white marble that she had found in one of the rooms, looking at the engraving beneath them with wondering eyes.  Someone had taken great care to etch a string of words around a depiction of a swirling symbol that reminded her greatly of the vines that hung over her head, having climbed in through the window, and in the center of that emblem was the clear shape of a bleeding heart.  

She looked over her shoulder, spotting Jaedin as he lurked by the doorway.  

"I fear we've only given ourselves more questions to seek the answers of," she told him, and moved to turn around fully. "If only there was…"

And then a flash of light caught her eye, from somewhere in the distance outside of the columns that formed the scant walls of the room.  

Moving as if in a dream, she crossed the room, gazing towards it.  Again, the light flashed at her – the last rays of the sun had glanced upon, perhaps, some large reflective object.  

Whatever it was, she felt a queer sense in her heart that they ought to go look at it.

Down from the curving dais that the chamber had been built upon she leapt, lightly connecting with the ground again.  Even as she began to walk down the white path that led down towards the atrium-like circle of columns that the continual flashes of light came from within, she sensed her dark companion's presence at her back, and knew that he would follow her.  He always had, no matter where she took them.

_Perhaps now they would finally have their answers…_

They passed between the pillars, and came to an abrupt stop.  All around them were slabs of glimmering golden sandstone, standing out against the white marble columns that were behind them, and upon those tablets were hundreds of hieroglyphics.  Between the symbols were ornately detailed pictures of what appeared to some sort of court life – royalty, holding a gracious and serene rule over adoring subjects.

Or rather…

Elowyn suddenly laughed, as she put up a hand and ran her fingers over the slightly indented cartouche that she was now facing.

"It's not a palace at all!" she told Jaedin, with obvious delight in her tone.  Her eyes were sparkling as she turned towards him. 

"It's a _temple_!  You see," and she directed his attention to the pictograms that she had been looking at, "There are the deities that the people here," she motioned to the fawning masses that were bowing down before the two faceless figures enthroned before them, "Are worshipping.  It's a temple – that is why we couldn't get any sense of good or evil power here.  It was _neither_."

Jaedin stepped forward, placing his hand on the hieroglyph that she had been touching mere seconds before, seeming lost in thought.

"But who is it for?  Whom were they worshipping, and why is no one here any longer?  Gods and goddesses cannot die."

Elowyn looked back at the pair of figures on the thrones.  

One was masculine, garbed in the fashion of the ancient rulers, and the other was female, with long, flowing hair and beautiful robes – but neither of the two had faces.  She shook her head, stepping away, back into the center of the room.

"I do not know," she murmured. "All of the temples I knew…they all gave clear evidence of what deity they were meant for.  Each would have a picture of the Seven Powers within them somewhere, with the particular Power that the temple had been built for centered among them…"

Then, as if lightning had cracked down out of the sky and a thunderous voice had told them, _Turn around and behold!_, both Jaedin and Elowyn whirled to face what was behind them.  There, on the wall, was a picture of the Seven Powers of the World – or the Fates, as they were also known.

And in the center of them…_was a blank space_.

Elowyn's mind was whirling, and she heard her own voice speaking, although she could hardly recognize it—"But that isn't possible – there are only _Seven_ Fates…there are only Seven; there can be no more.  _It isn't possible_."

But, as all heroes and heroines had – and would – eventually learn in the course of their all-determining life struggles, _nothing was impossible_.

*                       *                       *

_All at once, the room was bathed in light, becoming so bright that she initially closed her eyes against it; when she opened them, she could only see the barest outlines of everything around herself.  Still, that suddenly awful and yet compelling picture stood out before her, looming in her vision so that she could see nothing else, and then she heard a voice.  _

_It was a voice that she knew well, one that she had both feared and loved: an entity that was forever engraved upon her immortal mind, soul, and heart.  Yet she now felt as if she hardly recognized it – it was as if someone else, someone who was so much higher and more sublime than her, that she suddenly desired to shrink back and melt into the floor, becoming invisible to his eyes._

_"Long has it been since we last stood here, Fair Goddess."_

_Another voice replied to it, and she felt herself start violently – for that voice was hers!  But it sounded so much different: prouder and bolder, and with an agelessness that both awed and terrified her.  It was her own voice, and the other was that of Jaedin…_

_And yet they were not!_

_"Long have been the years in which we have endured our exile from our eternal selves," the other voice, the one that was hers, and yet not, answered. "We fully merited our downfall, for our pride became the stumbling block that was between us, and against the world."_

_"It caused us to turn against one another…"_

_"…To betray the trust that the world had given to us, the privilege that we had been appointed to as rulers over the Fates that sway the destinies of all things…"_

_"…And now, even as the evil of the world comes forth again to snatch it into its jaws, we have at last been given another chance: an opportunity to undo all that we have done, to take back what we had thrown away."_

_She – or it felt as if it were she, for her movements were her own, although she felt that the voice was not; it was as if she had been placed in the speaker's body, not in her own – opened her eyes fully and looked across the blinding white space before her.  _

_There stood a tall, proud and erect figure, arrayed all in white.  His features were familiar to her, as if she had known him in another life…but how could that be?  She was whom she had always been, but she had been separated from him for countless lifetimes…no, what was she thinking…she was knew who she was, who he was…no, she was wrong, the world was turned upside-down…what was happening?_

_The gray eyes of her companion looked across at her, and she saw the ancient pride, the indomitable and vast power that was within them; and, as she continued to look, she glimpsed the flickering incandescent white flame of passion, the desire, familiarity, and love that her heart recognized, and thrilled at—_

_"Now we have this last chance to return everything to the way it was before: the way that it was intended to be," he said. "We can make things right again."_

_"We must…" she heard herself say._

_He left his place across the white void from her, slowly coming nearer and nearer to her, and then she felt that his arms had come around her, touching her with a tenderness and ardency that she had known from all of eternity before.  She gazed up into the luminous rain-cloud gray eyes that now gazed down upon her with such passion, such love, and then she was murmuring…_

_"I can only hope that I may win the forgiveness of all, including you, my love…"_

_"As I must also pray the same of you, Fairest One," he replied, as her arms went about his neck, and the dazzling whiteness around them intensified, until she could not help but close her eyes, and savor the feel of him against her._

_ "Oh, goddess mine, I have longed for you with all my soul these long and wearing years since we were forced apart by our pride and foolishness; we deserved our punishment, but I cannot help but writhe against the pain that it has caused in my heart…"_

_"But we have found each other," she whispered, "We have found each other, though we had been thrust apart and reborn into frames that were our own, but we did not remember; there is hope now, we may yet return…"_

*                       *                       *

The blinding whiteness disappeared; the sunset-lit atrium was all that now remained, the hieroglyphics that lined its walls dark in the shadows.

Elowyn's eyes flew open, as did Jaedin's, and they stared at one another, rendered utterly immobile.  Thoughts flew through her head, the same thoughts that were raging within his.  Then, stark, terrifying reality dawned on them, in all its cruelty.

With a strangled cry, she pushed him away from her, as he hastily released her, and then they fell to opposite sides of the chamber, still unable to take their eyes off of one another.  Breathing hard, they were silent for a moment.  Then, Jaedin raised a hand, reaching out towards her, and whispered, "Elowyn—"

Her mind snapped; she would not listen, she refused to, he could not make her!  Shrieking incoherently, she clapped both hands over her ears and wheeled, nearly crashing into one of the marble pillars, and then fled from him – and from that horrible place, and everything within it – like a bat from the mouth of the underworld.

_"NO!_" she screamed."I will not accept this – this is not real, and I will not let it have a part in my life!  Let everything else be as it will, but not _this_!  _I won't let it be real_!"

But, although the faery princess could run from the truth, she could not escape it.  Denying what had been put into place before time itself had even begun – brought into being by the sovereign hands of the Three who had created everything – would not cause it to disappear.  Truth remained, and would wait.

It had been waiting now, for almost a million years.

*                       *                       *


	36. Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty-Three –

The Chapter of Our Tale That Will Remain,

For All of Time,

Nameless 

It was either some divine intervention, or mere deified cruelty, that sustained the sunset that night, drawing it out for what seemed an eternity.

Jaedin watched Elowyn run from him, and he knew exactly why she fled – and this time, he did _not_ chase after her.  He wasn't even certain, in his own mind, that he could stand the sight of her now: she, whom he loved more than anything.

But their mutual dismay was justified.

As he wandered through the paradise that was the grounds of the ancient temple, later, his eyes rooted first to the ground at his feet and then to the twilight sky, he mulled over all that they had just learned.  It was shocking enough when one stumbled upon one's true love, he knew; then how much more improbable was it that two people, who had been on opposite sides of a war, would find one another, discover a powerful bond that tied them inescapably and inexplicably together…

And then discover that they were not simply a vampyre who'd grown into maturity to become a Dark Lord, and a faery princess, both of whom were tied together by a prophecy that foretold the end of a world – _but a dethroned god and goddess_!

He went over the memories that he had of that moment of initial discovery, forcing himself to recall it even as his mind cringed, reeling with incomprehension and disbelief.  His training in the art of enduring even the most revolting and undesirable things in life served him well, he thought miserably to himself.

*                       *                       *

In the beginning of time, the Three had decided among themselves to create a world – a sphere that would become known as Evyrworld.  In it, they placed oceans, land, plants, creatures, and people, giving the last two the gifts of thought, speech, and magic: some more strongly than others.  When all of this had been done, They also brought into being a company of beings who would serve as stewards of the different elements of the world.  

One would rule over the element of air, and all of the creatures belonging to it; another would rule over the element of water, another land, another fire, and so on, through the remaining elements of animals, Sentients, Legendaries, Smaller Folk, and even Life and Death.  Each of these stewards was known as a Power, and together, they made up the Seven Powers of the World, also known as the Fates.  Together with their wives, the Seven governed everything within Evyrworld.

But there had not always been just _seven_ of them.

Over the Fates ruled a god and goddess.  He was Hate, and she was Love, and both were of equal power, held as joint sovereigns over the Council of the Fates.  

Love, the goddess. 

_With grace unmatched,_

_Standing tall – _

_Love was beautiful, _

_And queen of all._

Indeed, Love had been _very_ beautiful – without compare: a goddess revered by many, especially the females of each race who knew of the deities that cared for their world.  She was honoured as the one who brought romance and true love into each life: blessing families with longevity, children, and prosperity, and countries with peace and amity between each other.  Her symbols, as indicated within the temple, were the Star-Lily, which grew and bloomed only beneath the light of the moon, the white rose, ivy, and turtledoves.  In many artistic representations, she had been shown as a tall, beautiful woman with the white wings of a swan.

Hate, her husband and co-ruler, was exactly her opposite.  He was both feared and respected, for within his hand he held the power to create war and strife, and the Fate of Life and Death was his close comrade.  His symbols were the hourglass, the coiled cobra, the oleander and nightshade, and – of course – the dragon.  Whereas Love always wore white, Hate always wore black.

_Clad in black,_

_As deepest midnight's cover,_

_Hate was fair king,_

_And her lover._

But then disaster had struck, into the heart of the Council of the Fates.  

For Love and Hate, perceiving their individual abilities to both create and destroy, became overly proud, to the point of conceitedness, and began to strive against one another, in spite of their fellow gods and goddesses' council to be reconciled.  

Hate took fiery pleasure in rending man from man, country from country, race from race: he caused brothers to despise one another, sons to rebel against their fathers, monarchs to turn and lash out in violence towards their allies.  Love reacted in vengeance by employing her power to make all creatures act in the name of their desires.  She would manipulate a king into growing so fond of his treasure that he would arrange for his own children to be assassinated, or cause a young man to murder his brother for the hand of a maiden.  

Turning against one another, and forsaking the immortal love that the Three had created them to have for each other, Hate and Love took their battles further into the world, causing wars and death all in their own names.  

Love and Hate both had their dark sides.  Hate could be used for good, to cause men to abstain from and loathe evil, and Love could be employed to create harmony and bliss.  But when they forsook their given responsibilities to the world that they governed over, the darkness came forth.  The effects of hate were obvious, as those of wrongfully used love were also quite evident.  

In their battle against one another, the god and goddess wreaked so much havoc that their comrades in the Council of the Fates at last grew weary and concerned of the pair's duel, and went before the Three with their grievance.  The sovereign Trinity, who had observed the warring of the god and goddess all along, were finally moved to a decision, and Love and Hate were summoned before Their eternal throne.

They had abused their divine powers, and caused much suffering and evil in the world; now they would be brought to justice.

An edict was made against them: for their crimes, they would be cast out of the Council of the Fates, and made to endure life in the forms of the very races that they were supposed to have protected.  Only when they had found one another again, would they become aware of their past life; only when _this_ had been done would they be given a second chance, to win the world's forgiveness, and again become the god and goddess, Hate and Love.

Then they had been reborn: he as the son of a family of Sytherrian vampyres, and she as the daughter of two faeries of the White Realm.  By the time that this had come to pass, evil had entered the world in the form of the Dark Realm, and the Three had created the prophecy that foretold the end of it.  Little had anyone – even the Fates – known that the two people who would fulfill the prophecy would also be the reincarnated, as it were, figures of Love and Hate: Princess Elowyn and Jaedin, the Dark Lord.  

Unfortunately, because of the prophecy, the wicked Ebony Queen had snatched up Jaedin and attempted to thwart the will of the Three by turning him to evil, and then ordering Elowyn's death.

But Fate could not be thwarted.

*                       *                       *

So now here they were.  

Their hidden past life had at last been revealed, and they had a choice, it was obvious.  They could go forward into destiny, and fulfill the prophecy, ending the reign of the Dark Realm in the world and once again take up their places as rulers over the Council of the Fates.  Or they could refuse to acknowledge the truth about themselves, and turn from one another again.

Jaedin looked out over the wide, shimmering landscape of the oasis that he had come upon with Elowyn, his princess, and knew that she was somewhere within it.  

The fact that he had once, in a former life of sorts, been her husband – her mate, who knew her through and through, as no one else did – at last revealed to him the exact nature of his bond to her.  Not only through his love for her did that tie exist.  It was because he was Hate, and she was Love.  Struggle as they might against it, conspire as the world might against _them_, it was true – they were two beings, and yet _one_.

Would she ever accept him now?  Would he accept her?

He knew, without a moment's further thought, that he would.  The past was the past.  He had been prideful and foolish: arrogant to the point that had caused his downfall, and, to some degree, hers.  He didn't know whether he had been the one to create the rift between them, or if it had been her – he really didn't care now.  

All he was aware of was the fact that the Three had, at last, given them a second chance.  They could make things right; he might be returned to his love.

And he did love her – oh, he loved her with a passion that could be equaled by no one and nothing!  Jaedin loved Elowyn, and Hate held the same feeling in his heart for Love.  Nothing could part them, not even their own mistakes, not millennia apart.

The past was the past.  

With the future before him, he was confident of what he must do.

Jaedin and Hate combined, he set his shoulders straight, and set off, down the path that led around the hillside, away from the forest.  Her presence was ever within his mind, the sense of it growing stronger and stronger as he moved.  Yes, he would go to find her, and he would tell her all that he now knew to be true – to be real and eternal and unbreakable – within his heart, and he would make her listen.

She would listen, and they would begin to make things right again.

After all, it was their destiny.

*                       *                       *

Elowyn sat alone on the hillside, knees drawn up to herself with her hands draped over them.  The beauty of her surroundings still awed and amazed her, but it seemed a painful loveliness now, for her heart was wracked with the pangs of  the deep grief, loneliness, and guilt that now resided within her.

_How could this ever be?_

She had once been a goddess, who had erred in the confidence of her power and the heat of her anger, and had hence been exiled from her home, and torn from her beloved.  Her spirit had been held in dormancy for millennia, waiting to be reborn and set into life again – and when it had, she had become a faery princess who knew nothing of her past life, or of the one whom she had loved so much.

And now, she was faced with the fact that she might have lost him forever.  She had brutally shoved him away from herself, and run from him, turned her back on him—he might not, and with good reason, _choose_ to accept her in the wake of her actions!  She had denied the feelings that she _knew_ she had for him, had been cruel and unkind to him, and lied to herself again and again, saying that she did not care for him, she could not love him, she _would not_.

But she did.

_Oh, Fates, I do…_

With that thought bearing down upon her confused and unsettled mind, she put her face in both of her hands and cried.  She knew that her destiny now lay in taking up the truth of herself – of who and what she really was: the goddess Love and the herald of the Dark Realm's doom – but she was afraid to face it.  And she was afraid, because she did not want to let destiny take her without the arms of her beloved to protect and guide her.

He had loved her all along, from the very beginning of their second and earthly acquaintance; and she had loved him as well, deep down, although she told herself at every turn that this was not so, it could not be so.  

_She loved him._

Love desired to be reunited with Hate, her lover and mate, and Elowyn desired nothing more than to spend the rest of her life in Jaedin's embrace.

The reality of this was what had frightened her the most; it was, ultimately, what had caused her to run away.  He had been her husband – he had known her as no one else did, or ever could, and she had known him in the same way.  And when she, as Elowyn, had become aware of this…it had terrified her.  She hadn't even been able to clearly define what she felt in her heart for him – if it was love, or simply mere affection, or something else entirely – and then there stark, blunt reality had been.  

_You were once his wife,_ it told her, _and he has been meant for you from the beginnings of time.  You were one, and you will be one again.  You cannot escape it._

She was still frightened, but not of this.

She was frightened of life without him.

A single tear coursed down her cheek, following the others that had gone before it, and she looked back out to the setting sun.  A single name whispered through her mind…_Jaedin._

"Jaedin."

Suddenly, she became aware of a presence behind her.  She'd been too distracted by her own thoughts to have an sense of him, and now there he was – standing beside the tree that was a little ways up the hillside from her.  

He wore the same garb that he'd been in during the flashing, vision-like moment of the revelation of their pasts – a tunic of pure white velvet, breeches of the same material and colour, and black boots.  She herself wore a peerlessly beautiful but simple gown: white as well, with a corset-style bodice and sleeves that came off of her shoulders, cascading down from her elbows to mingle with her flowing skirts.  This was, she realized, the look of Hate and Love.

All white – pure as their original bond…

She looked at him, unable to take her eyes away.  

This was Jaedin, and this was Hate.  They were one and the same, just as she and Love…just as she was Love.  Elowyn, and Jaedin.  Love, and Hate.

After a moment of silence, he came towards her: moving slowly, as if he didn't want to frighten her, and she watched him until his shadow fell directly over her.  Then, he sat down, close enough for her to have reached out and touched him, if she had wanted to.  The look in his silvery eyes was one of gentle sadness, compassion, and tenderness, and it stung her.  Feeling utterly unworthy, she looked away.

_Elowyn, little Love – stop pretending to yourself, stop telling lies to your aching heart; it will only intensify your pain.  Go willingly into the arms of the one you see before you: he loves you.  He always has, and he always will.  You must trust him – you must trust yourself.  After all, you were not created a goddess for nothing…_

And she turned around.

Jaedin still looked at her, unhesitant.

"_I love you_," she burst out, in a breathless, desperate murmur, and then she thrust herself into his arms, and was holding onto him with a passionate fervor that left him in no way incognizant what her thoughts were.  In a moment, they withdrew from their embrace, looking long and deep into one another's eyes.  Then he spoke.

"I love you, Elowyn."

Elowyn – Love – held no doubt in her heart now that this was real.  _This_ would last forever, and _this_ was what she wanted.  He was hers, as she was his.

And nothing could ever again change that.

So, hesitantly – almost shyly – she reached out and touched his face with her hand, brushing her fingertips along his cheek until her palm cupped along the warm, silky skin of his squared jaw line.  His quicksilver eyes gazed back at her, longing.  

Their lips touched lightly and carefully at first, a mere brush of the mouth, and then the embrace immediately intensified.  Jaedin's arms wrapped around his princess's slender body—and in that embrace, they left thought, reason, and reality, and everything beyond it, far behind themselves.  Knowing only their sweet bliss – their love.

*                       *                       *

That very night, the Dark Lord and his faery Princess pledged themselves to one another: taking again the vows that had once joined Hate and Love in a bond sanctified by the Three Themselves.  As the first stars burst into being in the blue-black night sky, they ended their nuptials with a long, meaningful kiss of pure passion and devotion: sealing their eternal vows with that all-consuming display of their deep love…    

_And the universe danced with joy._

*                       *                       *

**A/N:** So, are you all still with me now?  Have some of the questions been, at long last, answered for you?  _Are you flipping surprised?!_  (I certainly hope so; if we haven't reached some sort of shock level here, I'm not doing my job properly…)  You probably have more – go ahead, ask them; I'll do my best to explain myself.  Oh dear…anywho, please r&r!  We have finally reached the end of my update.  More will come in the future – but whether that is near or far in the vast expanse of time, who can tell…

And yet we remain in the woods, but for a while longer. ^_^

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	37. Authoress's Note Part IV

Part IV–

World's End 

Oh my – we've been running for even longer than I'd thought!  This forest seems to have no end!  But rest assured; at long last, we've come to a clearing of sorts.  There: do you see it up ahead?  Come – follow me right around this bend in the path…and oh, _do_ have a care, there's a bit of a stream here and you'll not want to fall in (as it's rather cold, believe me).  Here's my hand…good, just keep following…do you see it now?  It seems we have finally come upon our destination—

Grandmother's house.

Let's see – what will be happening right about now?  Ah, yes…

When Little Red Riding Hood reached her grandmother's cottage, she was surprised to find the door wide open.

_(Dear me, Red – _that_ ought to have tipped you off right there.)_

She poked her head in and looked around.

"Good morning, Grandmother!" she called.  But there was no answer.  Feeling a little frightened—

_(And well she might!  This _is_ the Big Bad Wolf we are dealing with here – the original master of villainy in all the old tales!)_

Little Red Riding Hood went to her grandmother's room.

_Here: if we are quiet enough about it, we may now approach the door to Grandmother's cottage – it is indeed open!  But shh!  Make no noise!  These fairy-tale creatures get remarkably testy when they find they're being eavesdropped on, and we don't want to get a wandering sorcerer's curse dropped like a fifty-pound weight on our heads, now do we?  Listen: you can here them speaking inside…_

"Oh, Grandmother, what big ears you have!"

"The better to hear you with."

"But, Grandmother, what big eyes you have!"

"All the better to see you with."

"But, Grandmother!  What big teeth you have!"

"The better to eat you with!"

And at this point, things should have gotten ugly – but they won't, for we, my friend, have stumbled upon what appears to be a far more bizarre fairy-tale than has yet ever been told.  Or, at least, it ranks up there as one of The Few Highly Unpredictable Tales.  Right along with that one penned by my knock-about compatriots, Jacob and Wilhelm – the tale about the little boy whose stepmother killed him and then…oh, there I go again on a tangent.  It's a surprise we got here at all.  Now where was I?__

Oh yes!  From what we all know of fairy-tales of this caliber, the Wolf ought to have – by all means and rights – "sprang out of the bed and gobbled up poor Little Red Riding Hood in a single swallow" and then "lay back down on the bed and (fallen) into a heavy sleep".  But I believe that I told you before…this is no ordinary Wolf, and our Little Red Riding Hood is certainly not a wide-eyed and ingenuous child.  If you think that either of them are so, I suggest that perhaps you should backtrack a bit.  

(Or maybe my storytelling abilities just need a bit of tweaking.  Oh horrors.  Three hundred plus pages of this, and to have such a thought…  I shudder, my friend.  I _shudder_.)

At any rate, we are not now to head to the thrilling conclusion of the Wolf's inevitable demise and Red and her grandmother's rescue at the hands of the audacious woodsman.  No indeed.  In this tale, the Wolf just so happens to form an alliance with Red – one that could not easily be trusted, at first, and Red turns out to be more than a match for him, in cunning as well as intellect.  We must give her some credit, mustn't we?  

Anyways.  

So now the Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood are off on a new adventure of their own: off to save the world, in fact, and look who is coming down the path towards us now!  (Quick!  Hide!  Don't let them see us – behind this tree, duck!)  If you will look, you will perceive that a whole company of the most renowned fairy-tale characters has now made their appearance.  And what can such a sight possibly mean but one thing…

Something momentous – more than momentous – is soon to happen.

Of course, you probably already knew that as well as I did.  What else could the alliance of Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf mean?

Now let us sit back and watch the action.

(But be careful – a random, stray shot of magic can have disastrous results upon one's physical person, and you really don't want to be turned into a frog…) 


	38. Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty-Four –

A Picture:

The World at Winter

There was a dread pall of silence: thick, black, and chillingly morose, over the entirety of the Black City. Indeed, the Dark Realm itself had held nothing but a seething quietness for several months now. And the war that had looked to be so swiftly and mercilessly sweeping down upon the world as a whole?

It was as if all evil had begun to slumber.

But even a sleeping giant is not rendered less dangerous by his dreams.

Within the Ebony Queen's palace, there was no movement, no colour, or sound but the whispering footfalls of the jet-robed courier who now strode through the deserted halls, calmly and purposefully nearing the throne room of the lady herself. The gigantic, steel-bound double doors there had been left open – not completely so, but brought far enough away from one another so that a space of about ten feet was made between them. 

Through this the messenger passed, moving through the doors to come and stand in the center of the floor of black malachite. From her seat upon her high and magnificent throne, Zaschaea acknowledged him.

"What news do you bring, Rook-Lord?" she said, naming the low-ranking warlord by his official title. He was captain of a changeling army, which often took the form of a flock of pit-black and unusually large crows.

The messenger bowed deeply to her, eyes watching the coldly beautiful face of the one who was held in supreme reverence as mistress of all the forces of evil.

"It is not news that will please you, I fear, my lady," he said, softly, and then stood straight as he continued, in a level and even tone of voice, making certain that she heard everything that he had to say. 

"The alliance of the seven Zekkflagor generals made to go forth on the march to Iordania of Elvendome, with the intention to attack and subdue it as you had commanded, however—" 

He paused, meaningfully. 

"They were embattled long before they ever reached that city."

Zaschaea did not react to this. It was as if she had expected it, although it did have to be noted that her fingers – tipped at their ends with perfectly manicured black-red and talon-like nails – drummed a bit on the shimmering crystal orb that she held with a casual indifference in one hand. She raised one dark eyebrow coolly, dangerously.

"And?" she asked. "Where did the attack take place?"

"Just over the border of Sytherria, my lady. I was informed by my scouts only that they had come upon a scene of utter and bloodless destruction – a battlefield, where not a single body remained to tell of the skirmish that had taken place. Scavenging vultures flew overhead, wheeling 'round and 'round in the sky over the field, but they found nothing to satisfy their appetite for flesh. There had been a battle, but nothing remained of either side – the army that you had ordered to march, or their assailants."

"An invisible foe. You should learn then – never underestimate our enemies, Rook-Lord. It would be the unguarded chink in your armor."

This was said in a tone of voice that indicated, plainly, to him that their audience was over. The Ebony Queen needed to hear no more from him. He had said his piece. And so, with a respectful and silent bow, he turned and departed from the chamber.

When he had gone, Zaschaea turned the crystal orb over and over in her palm, although it seemed as if she did it mindlessly. Her flame-coloured eyes had focused on some object far out in the distant, impenetrable horizon, and it hardly needed imagination to guess at what she was thinking of. 

For the past several months, her plans had been inexplicably thwarted – foiled, the designs, the stratagems, of her: Zaschaea, the Ebony Queen! The war that she had so carefully structured and nurtured, over the countless years of her own dark existence, had come to what was without a question a complete standstill. Every army that she had sent out had been prevented from accomplishing its purpose, meeting always with the same end. Before it had even come close to reaching its destination, the entire army was utterly wiped out, and no sign was left of its existence but the blackened but somehow not scorched grass of an empty field. There was never any blood, never any wreckage or sign of aggressor or defender. 

Simply nothing. 

Zaschaea's wrath had climbed to nearly deadly level when this had happened for the first time. How could anyone have foreseen the exact location of her dark forces, and then managed to destroy it without leaving a sign of any struggle that had taken place? She knew of no realm in the world – even the White Realm itself – that could so effortlessly surmount, in battle, her own armies. Her warriors were well trained and devoted to their duty; they would not _just_ fall. 

It baffled her: the appearance of this nameless, faceless, and intangible enemy who had now risen to confront her. 

She had tried to conceal her ire, and instead concentrated on striking back, on reclaiming lost ground. More armies could be raised – more warriors could be created. This was not a setback: not for the great Dark Realm. She could take this on. 

But it was like fighting the wind. 

No matter which way one struck at it, one could never touch it, or harm it in any way, and it was still there, everywhere. So she lied. She covered up the failings of her plans with authoritative and confident words, and sent out more armies, in greater and stronger droves. The Black City was far from being emptied of all its evil creatures, and the war was yet to escalate to its final deciding battle. Truly – hardly any battles had even been fought yet, thanks to this invisible foe of hers…

Even now Zaschaea's eyes narrowed, as she sat in silence upon her throne.

It went without saying that the destruction of her partnership with her Dark Knight, Jaedin of Sytherria, was a notable – and hardly painless – loss for her. She had been severely crippled when he had announced, openly to her, his intentions to leave her service. She had been forced to extemporize, drastically, and she knew that he was fully aware of what he had done to her. Perhaps he knew better than she did just what his leaving had done to her – perhaps he _didn't_. 

She could just imagine the knowing, strangely youthful smirk that would have come across his proud, handsome features if he had had those words told to him. He would have been sated, in his own twisted way, knowing that he'd dealt her a blow.

That was the way Jaedin worked: in the typical manner of a Dark Lord, and a well-trained and experienced Dark Lord at that. His motivations were ever and only for himself, first and foremost. Himself, and none other. 

Quietly, as thunder rumbled distantly outside the black onyx walls of her Light-forsaken structure, the Ebony Queen went over the ordinances that she herself had drilled, over and over again, into Jaedin's mind. She remembered well, so well, those bygone days when he had been a willing and deadly-powerful pawn in her hands – a supple and corrupt and darkness-tainted knight whose power and prowess was excelled by none… 

Her masterwork. 

_"A Dark Lord can know nothing of the weak and pathetic strivings of the other beings, Sentient or otherwise, in the world around him." _

_"His sole thought is of gaining everything and anything he desires, no matter what the cost." _

_"He knows nothing of love, nor pain, nor loss – except that which he suffers or inflicts in battle – and to any being to cross his path, his touch is nothing but cold and brutal: his will of adamantine, and can never be otherwise. This is his fate, who he has chosen to be, and it cannot be changed, not by time, not by will, and not by desire…"_

_"A Dark Lord can know nothing outside of himself. His heart is black, and in the end, it will be his sole companion: his painful solace in the unfeeling, icy shadows. It is his life, it is his soul, it is his every thought and word, IT IS HIS DOOM." _

Stirring restlessly upon her throne, Zaschaea loosed her grip on the crystal, allowing it to slip from her palm and fall through the air. It burst, noiselessly, into a shower of black-garnet shards of light the instant before it hit the floor, as she stood. 

Her black silk gown whispering about her, she crossed the throne room, moving away from the throne, and went to stand at the balcony at its other end, looking out across the entire panorama of the Black City. 

He had been there, several months ago – six months, now that she turned her full concentration upon it. How he had managed to get a hold of a key to one of the Gates, and then entered the realm without her knowing it, she didn't know and didn't care. It could hardly irritate her that he had done so; after all, _she_ had taught him to act with such shadowy covertness. She had no one to blame for it but herself, after all.

Without that spell, it was inevitable that the Dark Realm would fall. 

Of course, her war would still go on. Fate could not be denied; she had pushed this thought from her mind for long enough, denied its truth, but now she had learnt to face it. From before the very beginnings of time, her Dark Knight had been meant to destroy the very blackness that had, for so long, been his home. 

And he would do it…he would do it, and he would have his Princess, the Child of the Faeries, Daughter of the Light, at his side when he did. Together, Jaedin and Princess Elowyn of Avalennon would strike forth against the Dark Realm, and it would fall. No effort of Zaschaea, the Ebony Queen, would serve to make this otherwise.

But while strength remained in the darkness, she would go on with her plans. The war could not be delayed forever – not even by this faceless nemesis that thwarted her so mockingly. Soon enough, even if she herself had to join her armies and assail the walls of Avalennon itself again… 

If the Dark Realm was to fall, then it would fall – but not without taking the White Realm with it. She was confident that this could be done.

Turning her eyes again to the scenery of her jealously guarded black paradise, Zaschaea let her eyes focus on the mountainous horizon.

_Live while you can, Jaedin. _

_You have escaped me for now, even while I held your soul in my hands: your precious life-essence…but I will not let it rest forever at this…you know that it cannot end happily for you; at this very moment, you know that they will never forgive you, and they will not allow you to hold onto her for forever, however you have acquired her—_

_If you have at all._

_So live while you can, Jaedin, and I will be watching, in the meantime, and waiting. I'll unravel what secrets are left in this world, and will have the end._

_I'll let you play your little game._

_But hate has too far devoured your soul. You are lost. You have no hope.___

* * *

Elowyn stood quietly in the midst of the snowy woods. She was dressed warmly, in a thick, many-layered gown and hooded cloak, with tall boots on her feet and velvety gloves on her hands, a scarf swathed about her graceful neck; it was winter. Snowflakes fluttered down through the air around her, the sunlight glancing upon them every so often and causing them to glimmer brightly for a moment. The scenery, indeed, was entirely covered in the cold and feathery whiteness, with only the dimmest outlines of the dark trees and undergrowth to relieve it.

"And here we are – again," she said.

Jaedin, her sole companion, looked at her, and nodded. He was without words at that moment, but he could hardly be blamed for it, in the face of this newest reality. Within only a very little while, the blissful and indulgent world that had held only the two of them – the world that they had known for the past six months – would melt away, falling into shards of its former self, and what had always been, was, and would be would come to take its place. Its rightful place. 

Within moments, everything would change again.

Still without a word, he stepped over a fallen log and came to stand beside her, the hem of his long, full-cut black velvet cloak brushing against the immaculate white snow, stirring it gently. His quicksilver eyes scanned briefly – silently – sharply, over the wide panorama of the scenery before them, and she felt a ripple of some emotion go through him. He was her mate: her husband, and her only love, and she knew him well. She waited for him to speak.

Finally, he stood back, stepping slightly behind her, so that her shoulder blades could have touched against his chest, if she had moved that way. 

"Will they understand?" he asked.

Elowyn felt a knot of emotion – feelings that she had, for so long, pushed into the back of her mind: doubt, fear, guilt, longing, and so many more – form in the pit of her stomach, and then rush into the back of her throat. It threatened to choke her. 

She hadn't wanted to think of this. To consider all of it. They had been so happy with one another…their lives had been perfect, after that sublime moment in which they had realized that not only had they been meant for each other from the beginning of time – they belonged to one another, they were one another… 

Hers had been all the unquestionable joy and contentment of a bride: sharing each moment, even her very dreams, with the one she loved, he who was her world. Even as they had covertly kept back the forces of the evil Dark Realm, confounding each attack without ever showing themselves, their minds had been focused on one another. At the end of the day, it was his arms that she sought, his kisses that rained down upon her brow, his voice that she felt her soul thrill at the sound of…

Now this.

It was time for them to return. The end was near, and it could only come if they were willing to recognize their responsibilities, and buckle down for the final battle. In the end, good would always win over evil… 

But there were still questions, in the meantime. What would happen once they did what they had traveled so far to do, she and her love? How would the White Realm and its allies react when all had learnt of the union between the Princess of prophecy, and the Dark Lord of old? 

Jaedin had many a wicked and cruel deed to his credit, and many a twisted and bloody secret in his past – she knew well of this. How many nights had she awakened to the feel of him stirring beside her: his sleep tormented by dreams of the past, nightmares so awful that he would only find calmness again after she had held him in her arms for what seemed to be hours upon end? And all this to demonstrate what kind of person he had been…hence his question—

_"Will they understand?"_

They would. They had to. There were other things much more pressing for them to be turning their minds towards. 

Wasn't it enough that the world had changed?

Elowyn shook her head, clearing off these thoughts, and pivoted so that she stood facing towards him. Her husband was broad-shouldered and tall; his strong and well-formed frame seemed to tower over her, statuesque and reassuring and powerful, with the grace of a large predatory cat and the darkness of the encroaching night. He was so much different from any other person she had ever known. 

Perhaps that was part of why she – Elowyn – loved him – Jaedin – so much. But then she – Love – had always held a passion that was more than incomprehensible for him – Hate – in her heart. 

She looked up at him for a moment; then, she stepped forward again, closing the gap between them totally, and draped her arms about his waist, pulling him to her. She let her eyes slip closed, and pressed her face against his thick black velvet shirt, inhaling his familiar scent of incense, fire, and wild, fresh air. He was still for a moment, and then she felt his arms move to close about her, holding her tightly. 

"But then…I have you…don't I?" he murmured, seeming almost as if he was a young boy wondering at his first sight of a phoenix taking flight. "I have you…and nothing else can matter, can it? As long as there is us…"

He didn't finish that sentence, however.

At last, she pulled away again, and met his gaze with hers, solemnly: reminding him, again, that here was not merely a young, naïve, and guileless faery princess – here was a goddess, who had as many years, as many lifetimes, and as many memories as he himself. Yet she was made of the Light…entirely composed of the one thing that he had, for so long, told himself he could never touch, much less ever possess…and here she was, in his arms. His own, at his side, through the coming war, which would take all the strength of good in the world to win. 

"Do you know how much I love you?" she asked him, in a murmur, leaning her head against his shoulder. He made a soft sound deep in his chest – one that almost reminded her of a purr, and most likely was – and replied…

"Tell me, my Princess."

"Count the stars," she said, and brushed her lips against his skin at the point just below his squared jaw line. "Number each blade of grass, each laughing baby's smile, each grain of sand, every tear ever shed…then you will know."

Now he kissed her softly, with a gentleness that no one – not even the most imaginative soul in the world – could have thought him capable of, had they seen him fully engaged in combat in the raging inferno of the fiercest battle, or snapping off orders as the relentless and cruel Dark Lord that he was…_had been_.

"And I love you."

The snow continued to fall, as the world at winter swept along, on its timeless, unaltered and steadfast way…

* * *

A/N: Me, back again after a lengthy hiatus! I have been gearing up for the imminent Armageddon-esque battle between the forces of ultimate good and evil, so I hope you'll excuse the wait... Look for an appearance by all of your favorite friends of old, from throughout this series of mine, and the introduction of some as-of-yet unheard-of characters, including an old, old acquaintance of our Dark Lord of Sytherria!

As for now, we will have a bit of downtime in this chapter, and the next, a little more action. Some of the first Travelers of Enchantment will be found engaged in battle after these two, though...but don't skip over these, even though they may seem slow! They're important, as they fill in the story of what's been happening over the past six months in Evyrworld! Action will commence soon enough. Have no fear. 

Answers to questions and comments to be found at the end of the next chapter, so you are aware.

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	39. Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty-Five –

The Calling

There were a few, precious, and almost entirely overlooked moments at dawn – moments so quick, so soundless, so fleeting that it seemed they were gone before they had even begun – in which the world was utterly still.  In the brief but _inexplicably eternal_ space between the appearance of the first of the sun's rays and the glorious explosion of light that was the entrance of that noble celestial being into the morning sky, there was a hush: a peace, serenity, and motionlessness that was, without question, _everywhere_.

The deepest, most morose and daunting swamps and marshes of the world saw it; the shining rays of the sun glimpsed shortly upon the murky waters there, and bounced off of the moss-hung reeds.  The spectacular citadels, great cities, tiny villages, remote thatched-roof huts housing hermit-like shepherds, and awe-inspiring, pristine temples with their immaculate columns of white – these all saw it as well.  The stone, wood, and earth that they were composed of witnessed this singular moment of the morning, never once neglecting it, even while their less-durable, living inhabitants were either still slumbering, fast in their dreams, or beginning to stir, or perhaps even looking forward to more hours of wakefulness, or heading to bed at last.  

Such was life.

Boundless fields also bore a part in this event, as did the rugged wastelands and deserts, the vast and deep forests, the shorelines of every piece of land, the ocean itself.  Some living things were able to sense the moment as well: the birds and beasts, and their like…there were few beyond them who were so well attuned to the earth that they could actually take notice of such an ephemeral pause.

_So quickly this world moves…_

And the world would continue to whisper this to itself: these words succinct and yet inconspicuous among the innumerable layers of noises, as life moved on…

_So quickly…_

There _was_, perhaps, one part of nature that was most suited to this moment of peace.  It would not be hard to guess at what this part happened to be, either, for what could be closer to the sun – the heart of the soul-stirring silence – than the towering and majestic peaks of the mountain ranges of Evyrworld?  __

These ancient giants, seated in all their firm and timeless grandeur atop the world, looked down upon the rest of the earth: secure in their unmovable strength.  They were the denizens of the world who first saw the Light as it burst into the sky.  And because they were ageless, the first of the earth, they saw everything; they knew everything.   They alone knew this moment each morning, and never neglected it.  __

_If mountains could think, or speak, and could tell stories of the things that had passed before their stony eyes…_

On the dawn of the first day in the third month of winter, the world saw an entirely new and totally unprecedented moment, however.  For there was a new whisper added into the cadence of life's ever-changing yet unstoppable music – it was a soft voice, but its tone and words were filled with power, and command, and the kind of magic that was impossible to deny, or to disregard.  Borne on the wings of the wind, the words of this voice were flung into the air, and went racing around the world.  The mind's ear of magical beings – legendary creatures, and people – heard this voice, and hearkened to it.  And awakened.__

_The time of waiting is past,_ She said, allowing her fingers to unfurl: like the petals of the fragrant blossoms that fell from the trees around her, as she rested her hands on her lap.  The world around her seemed blurry and insubstantial through her lashes, half-veiling her vivid and Spring-filled eyes.  Everything seemed bathed in an ambient golden light, as the sun continued to rise, growing in size and warmth and closeness with each second that passed by.  __

She closed her eyes all the way again, and delved deep inside of herself, listening to the millions of whispers of the living creation she was part of.__

_A great darkness grows in the sky, lingering on the horizon as it waits for its time to stretch out its talons to cause the blood of the world to run between its fingers again.  Those who seek good, and follow it, and keep to their oath to protect the weak and the unknowing and oppressed, have rallied their strength, and prepared for this time.  Their strength shall now be called upon…but they will not be left alone…_

_We shall never leave you alone again…_

_Now arise from your sleeping – grasp the hilt of the sword, the smooth shaft of the arrow, the steel-tipped spear.  Take into your hand the reins of your war-steeds – board your white-sailed ships – unfurl the standards etched with words of strife and glory and let them snap proudly in the wind.  Stand tall and face the rising sun: be assured and undaunted, she will not leave you in this hour…_

_Stand and fight – let armies clash and the forces of good and evil war for the fate of the world…  I call upon you, I summon you, but you hear the commands yourself, in your heart, long before I speak.  You know what it is you must do…_

_Hear me, and come, all of you, each one—_

_We go to World's End!_ __

All at once, it seemed as if the sun had burst; for one stunned and terrifying, one heart-freezing moment, it seemed as if such a cataclysm had taken place.  

The entire world witnessed it: each living creature, each part of nature, everything and everyone saw it, wrenched from their sleep by the silent blast.  The pale blue and gold of the sky was obliterated in that split second, and everything was charged with brilliant white, so dazzling that it was impossible to evade in any way.

It was seen in the Dark Realm.  The creatures there cringed and cowered against it, with some turning steadfastly to glare back against it, even as it disappeared, as quickly as it had come.  It was seen in the White Realm, where faeries, elves, vampyres, and their compatriots all turned towards it, taken aback, and some became fearful.  

What had things come to?  Was this some latest trick of the accursed Ebony Queen?  What was the Lord of the Faeries attempting to do?

At any rate, whatever the answer to all this was, everyone was awake _now_.

*                       *                       *

And far, far away from all of them, in a once-abandoned manor in a secluded stretch of the woods of Elvendome, the broad-shouldered and dark-garbed figure of Jaedin, the Dark Lord of Sytherria, stepped out of the shadows beneath the pillared pergola of white marble.  The soles of his black boots made a soft imprint on the pale green, frost-spiked grass as he approached the white figure before him, all the while watching her with careful and introspective eyes, respectfully keeping the silence.  

He paused behind her, waiting, and at length, she exhaled: letting her proud shoulders flag a bit and relax, her spine curving as she withdrew into herself in search of renewing strength.  

Then he knew she had done all she had purposed to do.

After waiting another moment for her to collect herself, Jaedin carefully seated himself behind her, bending one knee so that he could form his own frame into a sort of protective wall around her.  His cloak of black velvet, so much like the wings of an enormous bat, swooped in around her; the dazzling white and shade of nighttime met, and fell easily into companionship with one another.  She reached up and put one small, tired hand on his shoulder, resting her forehead in the hollow of his neck, just below his chin.  

They continued in silence for a long while.

Finally, she inhaled a deep, shuddering breath, and let her eyelids slowly flutter open again.  He put a hand to her temple, pressing his fingertips slightly against her skin, and put forth his particular vampyric abilities to read the conditions of other creatures.  

She hid her fatigue and uncertainty well, this princess – this goddess – and it took him, even him, a moment to push through the outer veils and break into the true, vital core of her being…but in a moment, he did.  He closed his own eyes and let some of his own strength flow through to her, knowing that he could hardly imagine how exceedingly strenuous the task she had just taken upon herself to enact had been.  

He had wanted her to let him help – to allow him to send out the words of the Calling himself, but both of them had known: this was for her to do.  As Love, she was first and foremost to draw all creatures of the Light together.  Hate would have his own time, in which she would not be able to aid him, except in the end, after his task had been completed.  Now he could only give her his strength once she had spent herself.

Elowyn was staring at the sunlit blades of grass now.

"Is it done?" he asked her, softly, and she nodded.  She didn't even seem to see him; only hear his voice.

"Yes."

She let herself fall further into his comforting darkness, and wrapped her arms about herself, thinking of what the end of that day might hold for them.  Then she whispered it, again.

"Yes."

_The Calling has been made – now all good and Light must join together, in a bond that cannot be sundered, and go forth to face all evil._

*                       *                       *

A/N:  And now for shout-outs!

**Grayfalcon**:  Oh, don't worry about Elowyn and Jaedin's newfound identities as god and goddess.  It…well, I can't give away too much, but I _can_ tell you that they won't be leaving their comrades anytime soon.  That would be just a bit too much emotional strain to put on my characters, and goodness knows there are a few of them *cough cough Jay cough cough* who would simply snap, mentally, if subjected to too much of that.  So rest assured, they will both be around for a while.  And Jaedin as a father… *looks impish*

Jaedin: *from the corner of the room where he is lounging on the floor while Shinzon, Bellerephon, Dorian Gray, and…Darth Vader (?!) are playing _Clue_…* We. Are. NOT. Having. This. Discussion. Again.

Kates: I wasn't talking to you, so "we" are not having a conversation about "this".  Go away.

Jaedin: *mutters several choice phrases under his breath*

Kates: *tastefully ignores him*

I have my plans, have no doubts.  ^_^  And it will be interesting, as the story is still far from over yet.  They have to vanquish the Ebony Queen, remember…

**Rosethorn**:  Well, falling in love with one's worst enemy – who also just so happens to be the evil Dark Lord of the day – can do funny things to one's mind.  Along with finding out she was once _married_ to that same Dark Lord…yes, that's definitely why she's spazzing.  Although she is about to find out just how extremely helpful her newly regained goddess powers can be…  **To Gavin**: Cool it.  You got to be in the first story in the series, so you were one of the first people of Evyrworld whom anyone one earth got to meet.  You were the second, actually, come to think of it.  And you were allowed out of my house to stay with Rosethorn, which is a privilege I have as of yet to grant to any of my other characters.  So Elowyn's a goddess.  Simmer down or I'll have Rosethorn feed you on gingersnaps and buttermilk for a week.  *smiles benignly, with an edge of menace underneath* The gingersnaps never fail to intimidate, you see.  

**Raal**** the Sword Master**: *chuckles* Exactly the reaction I was hoping for – although I hope your mind wasn't so frightened that it staunchly refused to come out from under the chair.  *offers conciliatory smile*  

Yes, the title does have a lot more to it than just the fact that hate and love are central parts to Jaedin and Elowyn's emotions for one another.  As for the Seven and the Nine issue…ugh.  Just brought to mind an unintentional Lord of the Rings similarity there.  (Prof. Tolkien!  Why Nine?  *Kates grumbles under her breath for a moment*)  Ah well.  Everyone will have to eventually find out about Jaedin and Elowyn's true status, but it won't be until the very last.  (Sorry, everybody.)  I can't tell you exactly how everyone will find out, but there will be varied reactions.  Jaedin's life essence – welllll…no, I suppose.  But Zaschaea still thinks he is slowly dying from that whole deal, an assumption which Jaedin will use as best and as painfully as he can against her, when they finally meet up again.  She's definitely not expecting Jaedin to show up and make a revelation about being a once-exiled demi-god, though.  

And yes, they are still Jaedin and Elowyn, for our purposes.  As an amateur, unknown and unpublished-as-of-yet writer, I don't want to have the rather interesting scenario they have in tales like the Symphony of Ages trilogy, where one character may have up to five different names and titles…

**Christina**: Yes, the title was definitely a clue.  Answer to your first question: yes, they will have their powers again, although I cannot yet reveal when they will regain them. As for the second question…hmm.  I've not yet really thought over that yet.  There are already thirty-six official chapters – including the author's notes before each new part – in this, and I hate to have this be so long that people look at it and go, _whoa, waaaaaay too long, don't have time to waste on that_, and then skip it.  Poor little baby story.  *pats enormous fine leather-and-brass-bound manuscript, which will, sometime in the distant and unforeseeable future, be the epic, Real-World published _True Hate and True Love_*  But…I'm guessing possibly five or six chapters more, if that much.  But then, I've always shocked myself at how long I tend to write, so who knows…

**Gryffindor-Gal3**: *darts a nervous look around computer room*  Ah-hehehehe.  I hope your printer isn't too angry with me, then.  Do make sure you lock the doors before you leave it alone after printing off my textbook-size chapters.  I don't want to be mercilessly tortured and slain by a rampaging, vindictive printer who resents the length of my tales.

And don't you worry either!  Jaedin and Elowyn are _not_ going anywhere soon!  ^_^  

**Jedi Blu, Lady At Large**: Oh do I know all about disappearing from the internet – or at least fanfiction.net – for…extended amounts of time that are not hours or days.  Horrid, isn't it…  Answers to questions now.  Yes, Jaedin and Elowyn will eventually regain their powers, although when I cannot say.  If they don't get them until after the battle with the Queen, that won't be very helpful.  But, then again…  Can't say more.  You all will simply have to keep trekking along with me and wait to see.  Hate as having positive qualities: well, really, in the end, hate is actually love.  If you hate something bad – like crime, sickness, etc. – then it's really because you would love to see a world where things like that don't exist.  Which is what makes Elowyn and Jaedin, as individuals, so closely tied together.  So.

Next update to arrive soon, I promise – a battle, and cameo appearances by our favorite comic relief character, the famous Legolas Greenleaf look-alike, my version of Beauty and her Beast, and various others, and the return of the resident Faery Princess and the Dark Knight of Sytherria...!


	40. Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty-Six –

Now the Battle Lines Are Drawn

_Shwing!_

What must have been either the fiftieth or fifty-first arrow sliced through the air and embedded itself in the dusty tapestry on the wall behind Arin of Lærelin, so narrowly missing his ear that his long white-blond hair was stirred in the wind of its passing.

The immortal enchanter-king shook his head slightly, in grim and apathetic disapproval of the foul-looking goblin chieftain who had sent the object his way. He had plans for the demise of that particular hideous servant of evil, to be put into action in the near future. Between hacking away at a closer foe and trying to stay behind the stone pillar that was shielding him from more dire attacks, he cast about himself quickly.

Where _was_ that mutton-headed sop of a brother-at-law of his, Gavin, anyway?

_Reinforcements would be nice,_ Arin thought.

Then he dug his glowing enchanter's sword deep into the stomach of his opponent, with such a vicious strength of the arm that the blade went through both iron and leather armor, and flesh and bone. He set a booted foot against the quickly expiring goblin and wrenched on the hilt of the sword, pulling it out with a hideous scraping noise.

His lifeless foe fell like a load of bricks to the ground, and Arin kicked the corpse out of his way, lightly leaping over it to press on further in the fracas.

Just a few yards away was the doorway out into the hall beyond the chamber he was currently inside of. As he ran through it, he found himself compelled to instantly dodge to the side in order to avoid a falling, burning banner that had formerly been attached to the ceiling above his head. He strained to see through the scarlet haze around him, his eyes protesting against the acrid smoke that had begun to fill the air.

He could hardly make out friend or foe, for all the figures that struggled and fell about him seemed to be composed of the same dark and unrecognizable materials. Suddenly, he became aware of someone shouting at him, from a little ways off—

"Father! _Father_!"

It was his son – his eldest child. Robeneron had an enormous gash on his head, running from about halfway up his forehead to a point perilously close to the outer corner of his right eye, and his fine royal prince's clothing was ripped, and bloodied. The thought that the blood on his son's clothing might be the blood of the boy himself made Arin's mind seethe with anger, but he had no time for that now. He shoved some of the burning wreckage aside and lurched forward, waving an arm as a signal.

"Robbie – here! Here!"

At last, the boy caught sight of his fair-haired, tall, and handsome father, and came towards him. They met in the shelter of a pillar and the table that had been overturned beside it, and Robbie whipped out his bow as soon as they'd put themselves as much out of sight and target-range as possible, fitting an arrow to it with a lightning speed that had, in times of peace, made his father quite proud. Between arrows, they spoke, voices clipped and terse in tone.

"Your mother?" Arin queried.

"With Uncle Gav."

"Things downstairs?"

"Hardly better than up here, Father, but I have reason to believe—"

Here Robbie paused to stoop and get out another arrow, and fire it off; his eyes gleamed with an almost fiendish pleasure as the missile made secure and unquestionable contact with another enemy warrior's chest.

"I have reason to believe that they're being slowly forced back. They can't push forward forever…"

"Vantage point." Arin commented, with a slight nod.

The small Lærelinorean seaside city of Menellendor had been prepared for such an attack of dark forces since the Battle for the Academy that had taken place across the ocean, in Elvendome. Nonetheless, no one had been expecting such a random battle, instigated just as the sun had begun to set.

The royal family's dinner with the marquis and his lady whom they were staying with, during their visit, had been ended on a slightly foul note.

_Shall have to make reparations for that later,_ Arin noted to himself, thinking grimly of what Elladine would have to say about his slaying the first of their attackers – and by decapitation, into the bargain! – in such an inappropriate place as the dining room itself.

The head, as it had bounced to the floor, had wound up at the feet of the lady of the house, as well. Perhaps he ought to have pushed the fellow out the door before striking at him; he was a fighter of a caliber that he _could_ have done that, but he just hadn't. Proper etiquette was thrown out the window in the face of a surprise attack.

_Bloody underworlds.___

Finally they heard boots clomping up the winding staircase nearby, and then Gavin of the White Realm made his appearance, with his sister – Queen Elladine, Arin's wife and Robbie's mother – and her oldest daughter following directly on his heels. Gavin shot out a hand and a blast of red and blue light came from it, which promptly hit the nearest enemy warriors and turned them into piles of dust. Arin grabbed his son's arm and pulled him up, and together they ran across to their comrades.

Elladine spoke as soon as they had reached one another.

"Mardyos, Willith, Kistella, and the people with them have driven most of the enemy out to the shipyards," she told them. "It looks as if we've finally earned ourselves some respite. For however long."

Arin clenched his jaw momentarily, focusing not on avenging the threat to his family and country – and their world as a whole – but on completing the task at hand, which was to end the battle, dispel their foes, and begin putting things back to order, and ready everything and everyone against a future attack.

"Good," he conceded. "Gav?"

"Still present, although possibly given over to internal bleeding."

"You and the rest of us," Arin growled under his breath.

Being immortal meant just that, but it _didn't_ mean that those who went in the category of the deathless and ageless couldn't be hurt. He had learnt that painful lesson several irritating times over as a result of tripping over miscellaneous toys left scattered about the floor in the children's nursery, years before, in the dark of the night.

"How did we leave the front bastions, the outer walls?"

"Holding, and holding well at that, brother. Those who man the ramparts are skilled and capable fighters – you have trained your assassins well. Too well, it seems, telling by the rapid retreat of our enemies." Gavin ended this statement with a smirk, his trademark expression as the comic relief of the faery court.

"Then let us repair to assist them, that this thrice accursed battle may at long last end!"

Arin turned quickly on his heel and made off for the stairway, with Ella, Gavin, and the young prince and princess following close behind.

* * *

Elowyn made a faint hissing noise – something that would have petrified any opponent of hers had they heard it, as would have the look in her green eyes – as she stepped back from the watching glass, moving her hand briefly over it in a gesture that caused the picture floating within it to dissolve and become mist, once more.

The battle had been a sudden and bloody one, and, no thanks to the evil Ebony Queen, her loved ones had prevailed over adversity, and would live to see the light of the new day. But having witnessed the skirmish and knowing who had instigated it, and yet being able to do nothing about it – at that moment, at least – she felt the blood run white-hot within her veins.

_Soon, _her mind whispered to her, firmly.

_Soon.___

And so she then closed her eyes and lifted her chin a bit, breathing in deeply to restore the harmony of her soul with the world around her. When she opened her eyes again, she looked immediately across the watching glass – now no more than a wide, shallow circle-shaped pool of clear water, over which a silvery mist drifted in gracefully furling and unfurling waves – to her companion, whose gray eyes met hers boldly.

"The forces of good and evil met in battle at the city of Menellendor," she informed him, promptly. "There were some deaths, and many injuries on both sides, but more so on the enemy than ours. Arin, Ella, Gavin, Robbie, and their comrades fought well. I am hardly surprised to see that my nephew has already become an even more skillful archer-assassin than he was when we last parted ways."

She remarked this last in a softer, more thoughtful, and infinitely, plainly fond and proud tone.

"And they won – they took the day."

"I presume that the Calling will reach them soon?" Jaedin inquired, seeing what she had not yet said within the depths of her eyes.

Elowyn nodded: her gaze and expression become distant as she reached out and gently stroked the silky petals of a water lily that floated within the waters of the watching glass, amidst the haze.

"Yes…by dawn, they will have learnt of it. They will have seen it. No one has made the Calling for centuries now, since the last great war between the White Realm and the Dark…but they will know it. And they will answer."

Then, she whirled back around to face the glass again, and moved her hand over the mist in another magical gesture: a funny, almost mischievous light made her eyes sparkle as she commented—

"Now, let us see how the rest of the world is faring…"

* * *

The city was in shambles after the night's battle, but by dawn, most of the fires caused by the savage onslaught of the invading army had been put out, and the wounded were being cared for as the dead were found and tended to.

Arin, ever aware of his duty as king and primary ruler, was on his feet for many hours after the last of the enemy army had been driven off, into the woods. Having assumed his dragon form to chase them away, he knew that no soldier of that particular faction of the Dark Realm's forces would be returning anytime soon to the seaside port of Menellendor.

He was helping lift a fallen beam of wood off of a weathered old battle-ax of a soldier who had fought under both Arin's father and grandfather's command when he felt a slight warmth come into the chilly, dark air, and suddenly a shaft of hazy ruby red glowed in the horizon.

Dawn was on its way.

Arin looked back to his companion – a valet of the resident marquis's house – and made a movement with his head that signaled him to lift his end of the beam. With a rough grating sound as wood scraped against stone, the beam moved and they heaved it off to one side, carefully assisting the bruised and stunned but otherwise uninjured man to his feet. Arin saw him off to the impromptu hospice that was to be found under a set of white canvas tents that had been pitched in the center of the city square.

There, one of the healers attempted to persuade him to leave the rest of the work for others, and retire, but the king would hear none of it. He did, however, accept a cup of restorative tea, and after handing it back to the healer-apprentice who had given it to him, he turned to exit the crowded tent. The air outside was slowly growing less cool as morning drew closer, and he could already see the ruddy glow in the distance dissolving, its fiery first colours muting into delicate pastel shades.

He smiled, a bit ruefully, pushing some of his white-blond hair, which had become plastered to his forehead with sweat – and, he now realized, blood, from a cut he hadn't known he had had – off of his face.

_Normally I wouldn't be seeing this part of the morning,_ he thought, as he wearily and somewhat painfully removed the leather glove he'd worn all night during the fracas and gingerly put his fingertips up to examine the wound on his head, which stretched from his temple to about two inches back into his hairline.

He frowned.

_Normally, I would still be in the comfortable sanctuary of my own bedchamber, with another six hours or so until anyone really needed for me to be awake. _

_Such is war._

As an immortal, he didn't often worry about wounds, because most were trivial enough that they healed within a few moments – skin re-fusing over a cut, and that kind of thing – but larger injuries were just a bit of an annoyance.

Especially when he had better things to do.

Murmuring a few words in Lærelinorean, he put a hand to the side of the head, barely skimming his fingers over the wound, and closed his eyes. He felt a sensation something like a gentle fizzling and something like a cool wind blowing along the open, sore cut that he hadn't noticed before, and then, as simple as that, it was gone.

_How unfortunate that this kind of magic can only be used on immortals such as I, when there are others who need it far more. _

He looked down at the ground, taking note of the people still hurrying past him – carrying wounded on stretchers to the healers, pushing through the rubble in search of other survivors and dead; there were people going back and forth, beginning to repair the damage done to the city.

There was still life here.

But blood had been spilt in these streets.

Arin turned: glancing this way and that in search of any familiar faces – his wife, his son, daughters, or perhaps even the marquis or Gavin. None of these were anywhere about, however, at least that he could see, and so with a bit of a sigh, he decided to try his luck at finding his way back through the rubble to the castle.

Perhaps Ella and the others would be near there.

The few people he passed on his way through the cobblestone streets quietly but respectfully acknowledged their king upon seeing him, and he replied in kind, but was otherwise silent, determined upon his mission. The sky gradually took on a gray hue that was tainted with a pale, pale blue, which grew brighter as the light of the sun strengthened. By the time he had reached the gates that separated the marquis's manor from the rest of the city, the sun was cresting the horizon.

"Where have you been?"

And Arin found himself borne backwards by the unexpected, rapid assault of his very frustrated but relieved-looking faery princess, who glared at him with a light that warned him to take heed, and assume proper manners, as he stood there before her in the street, with her holding him securely by the arms. He tried to look innocent.

"Ella, darling, I don't know what you mean—" he began, but she gave him no quarter.

Abruptly, the grip of her tiny hand tightened to a surprisingly firm pinch.

"You—don't even _start _with me, Your Royal Majesty!" she snapped off at him. "I was just at the healers', and they told me you'd been by, and that you had an enormous gash on your forehead and across your shoulder blade, and you wouldn't hear of taking a rest! I've been worried sick, you unbelievable man! "

Weakly, the Lærelinorean king tried to protest, but his raven-haired queen would hear none of it. "Ella, _really_…it's not as if it's going to _kill_ me..." he began again, but her dark eyes flashed a lightning at him that caused him to give way, and clam up, as she turned him around. "I'm perfectly all right, in case you didn't know," he muttered, under his breath.

Elladine clenched her jaw as her gaze fell upon the bloodstained tear across her husband's back, reaching from his left shoulder to just below his right shoulder blade.

He must have received it the night before during the battle, she surmised, and in the midst of all the fighting and activity afterwards, he somehow hadn't noticed it. The wound, having been left open to the air, had bled freely and caused his tunic and shirt to stick to his back, under his long gray cloak, and she wouldn't have been at all surprised if it had already become inflamed or infected.

"Arin? Do me an immense favor, love, and don't move an inch – or this _will_ hurt a bloody lot." she said lightly, as she moved her fingers to begin carefully peeling the bloody fabric away from the skin. Arin took the warning not a second too early, and an angry hiss of pain – akin to the noise a dragon might have made when injured – escaped him as the separation was made. Cold air bit into the previously unnoticed wound and made his vision swim.

"This is going to need some antiseptics," Ella commented, and gently pulled the cloak he wore over his back again. "Inside _now_, Majesty."

Obediently, he let her take his hand, and then wound her arm through his, as he had so often done through all their many years of marriage – in peaceful and turbulent times. Together they walked up the winding, sandy path that led through the gardens of the manor, back towards the house itself. The doors were again being watched by a pair of the marquis's guards, who immediately recognized the king and queen, and allowed them entrance.

Ella steered him without preamble towards the fine quarters that had been allotted to them for the duration of their stay in the city, and then disappeared on an expedition to the manor kitchen in search of the herbs she would need to make up the antiseptic poultice she intended to put on the gash in his back. Arin crossed the room, opened a window, and let the breeze stream in.

Meanwhile, Ella picked her way through the wreckage-strewn halls and stairways of the manor, offering words of encouragement and occasional aid to the servants, villagers, and others who were cleaning up the mess. At last she came to the kitchen, where she shooed a sleepy-eyed maid and troupe of scullion-girls off to rest; then the faery princess went in search of the items she needed.

Having found the herbs, gauze, and other simples that she required, she returned to the bedchamber she shared with her husband, and found him standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise. Actually, by then, it was more like the morning sky, for the sun had fully risen.

When he heard her softly say his name, Arin turned around and smiled at her, faintly. Even immortals could become tired after an entire night of fighting.

"Lovely morning, isn't it," he said, and stepped away from the window. Ella returned his expression, and placed her armload on the chest at the end of the bed, crossing the room to him.

"Let's see this war injury of yours now, my love," she said, and reached up with practiced care to undo the clasp of his cloak.

Arin helped her by easing the gray woolen item off of his shoulders and then made a slight circling gesture with his hand, just barely turning the wrist. The cloak lifted from its downwards trajectory and floated across the room, to hang itself over the dressing screen that had been provided for the privacy of the occupant of the room, should it be required.

Ella managed then to extricate him from both his tunic and shirt, and surveyed the cut again with an analytical eye.

It had probably come from a glancing spearhead or pike, and not a sword or arrow, and was deep enough that she knew that, had her husband been mortal, she would have been quite worried about him. As it was, he was immortal, and the most that such a gash would do to him now was cause him the bit of pain that would most certainly put him into a sour mood whenever he went to stretch his limbs in order to fire an arrow or whatnot.

"Face-down, please, milord," she said, motioning with one hand that he ought to stretch himself on the large canopied bed. Arin obliged, and took uninhibited bliss from the feeling of the cool silken pillows and velvet coverlet as soon as he had lain down. He felt the mattress sink slightly as Ella took a seat beside him on it, and then something brushed across his injured shoulder blades, something that made him clench his jaw and inhale sharply again as it stung into the open cut. He sensed her apology before she gave it.

"Rosemary and hyssop – if you want to use your sword again in under a fortnight, dear-heart, you can't have an infection. I'm sorry, Arin."

"Sssill blldy hrrts." Arin mumbled, his face buried in the pillow, and Ella laughed for the first time in what seemed an eternity, but in reality had only been a night.

"I think you'll live."

After cleansing the wound with clean water and the herbs, she applied a poultice of crushed lavender leaves and blossoms, eucalyptus tree oil, and a restorative medicine she had found in one of the kitchen cabinets – in all likeliness meant for first-aid use in times just such as these, though Menellendor had never before experienced an attack of the Dark Realm in all the long years of their rule. Using her magic, she eased the soreness of her husband's muscles and the fiery stinging of the wound on his back, and placed the gauze over it. If Arin was to actually rest for more than two hours, he would be able to move without pain again by that evening.

She sat back, preparing to return to the kitchen the things she had borrowed to tend to her husband, and was just moving to stand when Arin suddenly caught her wrist in his much larger hand and kept her from making her escape. She frowned, and began to protest.

"Arin—"

"Turn around," he ordered.

Ella sighed deeply. She had heard that tone of voice from him before – he could be more commanding than any other man in the realm, and though the king of Lærelin did not often employ his firmest tones, it was well known fact that one had better obey right-quick when he did do such a thing.

She turned around, putting her back to him, and heard the rustling of the bed as he stood up. A moment later, the long, thick fall of her raven's tresses lifted from its placed at her back, and Arin made a growling sound in intense frustration. She winced.

He'd caught her this time.

"And when did this happen, my lady?" he inquired pointedly, having exposed the enormous, bleeding goose-egg on the crown of her skull, hidden beneath all of her hair.

"Some witless klutz of a lumbering ogre-brute clobbered me with his shield—I ran him through!" she protested as her husband quickly stepped around in front of her and gave her a no-nonsense push on the shoulders that was not quite gentle. She sat down hard on the springy mattress and glared obstinately up at him. Arin's ice-blue eyes only held a keen-edged though well-meant annoyance, however.

"If you can treat me like a giant infant," he said coolly, reaching for the medicines she had just employed on him and gesturing for her to hold her hair out of his way, "Then I suppose that turnabout is fair play, your Majesty – and as _I_ am the king, _I_ make the rules."

"Bloody tyrant," she snarled underneath the mass of hair that he'd pushed over her face.

"And if calling me names helps you sleep better at night, dear," he continued, without pausing in his work, "Then by all means, go ahead. I'm sure that stone floors and walls don't blister very easily."

When he had completed his task, Arin leaned forward, in front of her.

Ella's head had bowed, and her arms were wrapped tightly around her torso. She had been absolutely silent for several moments, which worried him. "Ella, love?" he murmured, gently, and reached out, brushing her hair back over her shoulders, and away from her face.

This revealed to him what he thought it would – a pale, tear-streaked face and violet-blue eyes that glittered like jewels in a stream, their frame of thick black lashes clinging together in spikes.

She shook her head at him.

"I saw my son fight in a battle for the first time last night, Arin," she said to him, and suddenly he remembered her as she had been hundreds of years before.

He himself had been lying on the floor then, his life's blood gushing out of him at such a pace that he had known that his death was imminent, and she had been holding him in her arms, begging him not to leave life. She had been crying then, too, and in much of the same manner as she was now. There was fear, unmistakable fear, in the faery princess's voice, and in her eyes.

"He was so brave – I couldn't have been more proud, or more terrified – and Joanna…" speaking of their oldest daughter, "There was an armored knight charging at her, with an awful mace, swinging it back…"

And she couldn't go on any further.

Knowing exactly what he had to do, Arin immediately took her into his arms and held her close, feeling their conjoined heartbeats and breathing as Elladine's tears fell onto his shoulder. Her form quaked with heart-wrenching sobs, but he held on.

"I didn't want it to come to this," she whispered, through her tears. "I knew that it would, one day – we all did, didn't we? – but I didn't want it...I didn't want it..."

"No one did." Arin said, softly.

Then he curled his fingertips under his wife's chin, and raised her face to his.

Elladine had always been intelligent, resolute, and brave, never one to quail in the face of danger – or adventure, which had been one of the things about her that he had first fallen in love with, among the many, many others. She had always been brave, and confident, knowing that no matter how dark the night grew, at its end there would be an even brighter light. But sometimes even the most hopeful soul could learn to despair.

"We lived – we all came through, didn't we?" he murmured to her, caressing a stray lock of her glossy dark hair behind her ear with a bit of a smile. "We're alive, and the shadows have been run off for the moment, haven't they? The children will be all right. If anything, we know what they're made of now – they've proved their mettle."

"Arin!"

And she poked him in the ribs in protest. Well, at least she was smiling again now.

The king grinned, and rolled over onto the mattress, pulling her with him. It had been a long night, and now he was fully ready for some sleep – if not an all-out coma. With a swift jerk of his arm, he pulled the coverlets up over them and magically slid the curtains at the window shut.

"Now," he said, tapping a finger on his wife's nose, "I should very much like to get some sleep, if you don't mind, my queen. Wake me next century, would you…"

She sighed in contentment, and draped an arm across his chest, drawing herself close to him, and laid her head against his shoulder.

"Sweet dreams, my enchanter."

And within five minutes, both monarchs of Lærelin were lying fast asleep.

* * *

As it was, a good part of the city went to sleep during the sunlit hours that day, and at nightfall, King Arin and Queen Elladine rose with the rest of those who had been able to rest. Garbed in simple but majestic attire – deep blue velvet for Arin, and black for Elladine; 'simple' for both because of the gravity of recent events – they descended to the great hall that fronted the manor's dining room.

There, the Crown Prince and the two princesses awaited them, similarly dressed, with their uncle serving escort. Gavin had just come from a visit to the outer walls of the city, Arin decided upon seeing that his brother-at-law wore a heavy cloak and his sword. Princess Joanna and Princess Echo immediately darted forward and embraced their parents joyously, having waited many long hours to be reunited with them after the battle; then Robbie, having courteously waited for his sisters to greet the king and queen first, came forward and was warmly acknowledged by his mother and father as well.

"The marquis is away, seeing to the repair work on the city," Robbie informed them as Gavin led them all towards the doors to the dining room, "And so he has requested that we start dinner without him. He won't be back for another few hours at least."

"Gives his most profound apologies, of course," added Gavin with his usual cheeky facetiousness, merriment dancing in his gray eyes. Arin sent him a thoroughly disapproving look, but Gavin was used to getting that reaction to his remarks from everyone, anyway, and so didn't mind him. Then, Arin declared—

"Then I suppose that we'll all just have to go on without him, won't we? Miladies."

He stepped aside, permitting his two daughters to pass by on their way to their seats, and then suavely assisted Elladine into her chair before taking his place at the head of the table.

In an instant, servants had come to gracefully dole out that night's fare, and the royal family went to eating with a relish. Most of them had slept a good part of that day, and all were famished. As soon as he had tended to the most demanding part of his appetite, Arin turned to Gavin.

"What word from the walls?" he inquired.

Gavin swallowed the mouthful of soufflé that he'd been enjoying and then replied—

"Repair work is all the action going down now, Arin. They're looking to strengthen the ramparts so that if there's another attack…"

He paused, in thought.

"_If_ there's another attack, they'll be more ready for it. It's too unfortunate that the fleet's been deployed to the high seas – we could have used the cannons of at least _one_ battle ship last night. 'Twould've saved you the bother of shape-shifting, Arin, although dragon-fire is much more effective in the long range than cannon fire."

"Shape-shifting is never a bother when I do so to defend my family and kingdom," Arin said, darkly, rolling the stem of his silver wine goblet back and forth between his fingertips. "Have we any word from Elvendome as of late? How fares it with Skye and his folk?"

Gavin looked at him in complete, serious silence, and Arin felt himself grow cold inside. Beside him, at his right hand, Ella stiffened – her dark eyes flaring slightly wider – and she set her fork down on her white porcelain plate with a beautifully musical _chink!_ that seemed as loud as an explosion in the sudden silence. Robbie averted his gaze to the table top; Joanna and Echo suddenly looked as if they were both about to cry.

"Fates." Arin breathed, taken aback by the unspoken news in Gavin's silence. "They've been attacked too. Iordania has been attacked."

"Not Iordania, actually, and for that we may thank the sovereign Three," Gavin said, finally, and rose to refill his goblet, doing the same for Arin and Ella as well.

As he resumed his seat, he explained—

"Apparently, they had much of the same experience as we – from out of nowhere, Dark Realm forces swooped down upon the city where they were staying: Pyrisdior, I think Skye said it was, and the elves were hard-pressed to drive them back for a while."

"But they won out?"

Gavin nodded.

"They did indeed. However, they are in about the same boat as us now, Arin – left with many repairs and little time to do them, as they've no idea if the enemy will strike again, without warning, or not. It's time someone did something. If this is only the beginning, we won't be able to stand much more of this."

Arin stood, pushing his chair back from the table, and they all watched him as he crossed the floor, going to the window. In the distance, the sun glowed red in the horizon.

Which reminded him of something…

"This morning, as I slept, I dreamt a strange vision," he said, in a low tone. "It was as if I had transformed into a bird or some other winged creature, and was flying over thousands of miles of land: it passed beneath me as if I was moving with the speed of the wind, and I saw countless different sceneries. Then I reached a mountaintop, where the sun was rising, and there was a bright flash of light, a wave of it, that washed over me, and went out through the entire world. It was…all so real…that I somehow couldn't bring myself to believing that it hadn't been, upon awakening. Does this seem strange to any of you?"

And he looked back at them suddenly.

Each one of the people sitting at the table met his eyes directly, and shook their heads. Ella voiced their answer—

"No, for I dreamt of the same thing."

"And I saw it."

As one, they all whirled to face Echo, who was sitting quietly in her chair, looking down at the cambric napkin in her lap, studying the delicate fingers of her hands. She had spoken.

"Echo, what—" Arin began to ask.

Then two things happened at once: first, the room seemed to vaporize, and become insubstantial, transmuting into pure, radiant white – a brilliance so dazzling that it pained their eyes – and second, a wave of energy, so powerful that the floor beneath their feet, the foundations of the fortress itself, began to shake.

But before they'd even had time to cry out, the painful brightness vanished – or faded, really – and they dared to open their eyes…and look at their new surroundings.

* * *

A/N: Hehehehe...I'm back! Due in during the next few weeks (hopefully...) the concluding chapters to the infamous Jaedin and Elowyn story! Yes, we are nearing the end...

I know, I know...I've kept you all waiting for a bloody long enough time...but here's two more chapters - and long chapters, at that - to feed your interest. Assuming it's still there.

Now, on with you!


	41. Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven –

Debates in the World's Council

It seemed as if they were now in the most beautiful of tropical glades: a valley framed by gently sloping but tall hills on all sides. Around them, closer, were enormous blooming flowers of truly extraordinary colours, shapes, and sizes, and dense green foliage that shimmered wetly, like emeralds. There were dozens and dozens of multi-tiered waterfalls all about, which leant to the coolness of the air that blew about them. And above it all, in the perfect crystalline blue sky, shone the white sun, with magnificent white clouds rolling briskly over it.

Could this be real?

Or was it some vision?

"No two people may see the same vision," Arin said softly, as Elladine and Gavin exchanged glances. Then, without another word, Arin swiftly dropped into a kneeling position, hovering deftly over the grass. He put out a hand to touch the turf at his feet. After a moment, he came up with a strange, unfathomable look of wonder and awe in his ice blue eyes.

"It's alive," he said, hardly seeming to believe his own words. "Alive like no other land that I've ever been in before. It's as if each blade of grass...each flower blossom..."

He trailed off into silence, shaking his head.

"It's real. And there is_ magic_ in it..."

"But no magic like any of that which we have been met with ever before," commented Gavin; he scanned his gray eyes across the still valley. There was no sound but the wind's whispering, water flowing, and – occasionally – a bird's call from within the mountainous forest. They were, it seemed, _alone_.

Elladine gave an involuntary shudder.

She had dealt with many kinds of magic and oddities before – but never anything like this. She could not, like her brother and her husband, get a sense of whether the magic that was swirling in the air around them, thrumming in the ground at their feet, was good or evil.

But it was powerful: that she knew.

And it had brought them here.

Suddenly, Arin's hand went to his sword's hilt, and with a ring of steel, he drew it: pushing her behind him at the same time. It took her a moment to realize what had caused this. Following the intense glare of her husband's narrowed eyes, she looked to the nearest stand of trees, and felt her blood run cold when she saw five – no: six, seven, eight – shadowy figures approaching through the undergrowth. Gavin likewise unsheathed his sword, cueing Robbie to do the same. Protectively, the three men stepped in front of the queen and her two daughters.

Then Arin called out, in faery—

"Ho there! Stand, and name yourselves! Are you friend or foe of the White Realm?"

There was a pause, and then a startlingly familiar, but wholly unexpected, voice replied to Arin's sally—

"Arin? Arin of Lærelin? Is that you?"

"That depends on who _you_ are!" Arin retorted, without giving ground, although he was almost entirely certain that he knew the voice.

_Still,_ was his thought, _if we could all become tangled up in some mysterious power that can easily transport each one of us to an unknown place, nothing can be certain. Especially now._

He did not want to give in to blind trust so easily.

"Arin – Ella – Gavin," said another voice, "It's _us_."

And then Orlando – Ella and Gavin's cousin – his wife Arielle, Griffith: captain of Avalennon's guard, Prince Skye, and Princess Odessa-Gadriel, accompanied by a few others whom the group in the open now recognized as various members of the White Realm's court, both faeries and elves, stepped forth into the light. Arin's sword went slack in his hand, as he stared at them.

"Fates," he murmured; then, louder, "What are _you_ all doing here?"

Skye gave a bit of a rueful laugh, although his golden eyes did not reflect any true amusement. "We're not entirely certain of that ourselves, I'm afraid, my friend," he said.

"You see, it all happened rather strangely." Now it was Odessa-Gadriel who spoke, and her graceful, famous elven features plainly showed her confusion and worry. "One moment we were all convening on what steps in the repair-work we should take—"

"After the battle," Skye put in, as he draped his arm protectively around her waist. "And then everything was engulfed in a brilliant white light...and we were here."

Arin, Ella, and Gavin all looked at one another, completely baffled.

First, strange dreams, back in Menellendor, and now _this_?

"So, clearly the question now is what are we possibly to do?" Gavin stated. "We don't know where we are. Or how we got here. Not much good to start out with."

"If you want to see it that way."

* * *

As one, they all started and whirled around, looking for the owner of this newest voice...someone who seemed to be quite invisible. The breeze kicked up again, and whizzed about them with a little laughing sound.

"Gavin, Gavin..." clucked the voice in an amused tone. It seemed to be the voice of a young woman, more of a girl really, who was young and knew it. However, there was something else in the tones, the words, of that voice, that spoke of more than youth. There was a sort of power, an authority and confidence, and empathy."Pessimism _really_ doesn't become you at all."

_Who are you?_

The question crossed everyone's minds, rapidly metamorphosing into 'what_ are you?_' Then the breeze left off its whirling around them, and disappeared entirely.

They heard a light, girlish giggle from behind them.

"Welcome, all of you. It's been far too long – I've missed you."

With a start, the entire group spun towards the speaker, and it was Robbie who first found his own voice when he had seen her. Lunging forward with an incredulous but overjoyed expression on his face, he cried out—

"_Elowyn_!"

* * *

And indeed it was the famed youngest Princess of the White Realm: as young and pretty and happy-looking as they had ever beheld her. Her green eyes sparkling, she held out her arms readily, and stepped forward to collide with her nephew in a warm embrace.

"Fates alive!" Robbie sputtered, when he pulled back to gaze at her.

She was just as he remembered her, all of those months ago upon their last farewell, only now, instead of travel garb, she was wearing a simple, wide-sleeved and full-skirted white gown, with only a few glimpses of shining silver and gold embroidery here and there. It did justice to her beauty, as did her unbound hair: the sun glanced upon its white-gold tresses, making them gleam like the most exquisite strands of the precious metal. Around her neck, she wore the precious chain and pendant from her true parents.

Yes, she was exactly the same as he remembered her...and not.

Somehow, there was a subtle difference in his dear friend and comrade of old – a change that he had to search hard to see. Outwardly, she was still one of the most beautiful women who had ever lived...and yet, now, she seemed even more so, although he could not tell why. It was as if every trace of hardship, pain, and grief had been totally erased from her, leaving nothing but pure, concentrated grace and loveliness behind. And there was an unfathomable wisdom in her eyes now, as she looked at him: wisdom and understanding that seemed to have been earned from countless millennia past.

But he had no time to question her on this, for then everyone else had suddenly rushed forward, and soon they were all in the midst of a joyous reunion. There was laughter, and some tears were shed, and everyone was talking and embracing at once. Most of the attention, ostensibly, was centered on Elowyn. Many questions began to surface as the initial tumult began to slowly subside, but before she became utterly overwhelmed, the princess held up a hand, halting all motion and noise.

"You all have many questions; I know," she said, in a quiet voice that rang with firm resolution. "And they shall be answered – soon – you may believe me. But not now. There is a war encroaching on our world: it has already begun, for many."

She paused, eyeing the group.

"The Ebony Queen is moving forward, reaching out to wrest the world from everything that is of good, and Light. We must stop her. The Calling has been made; all have been Summoned. And now we must convene, for the White Realm and its allies are to rally for the World's End."

She turned halfway from them, gathering the skirts of her gown into one hand so that they would not get in the way of her bare feet. Then she beckoned.

"You have been Called here for this. You are needed."

And so they let her lead them.

* * *

Elowyn wove her way among the exotic plants and flowers with such an ease and confidence that her companions each decided that she had been in this strange place for some time. It almost seemed as if she had spent a lifetime there...although they were certain this could not be true.

After an interminable time of walking, a clearing came up in the trees ahead, and suddenly they were standing on the face of a steep hill. Beneath them was a wide plain, in which an enormous building that resembled a temple of sorts, and, to their utter amazement, they saw what must have been thousands and thousands of people standing around it. She let them stand and gape for a moment, and then explained, with her trademark impish smile—

"What – you didn't honestly think we'd have you all here without including everyone else? This is a fight for everyone. Let's go down and join them."

Moments later, they were standing in the midst of the temple grounds, surrounded by every single member of the White Realm currently living. Orandor and Vahlada were already there, along with each of their children. The elves were there, and the faeries, and the changelings, Sprytes, tree folk, sea folk, wizards, dwarves, vampyres, and more.

All had been Called.

Elowyn gathered the group of newcomers about her, telling them that everyone must organize into sections according to their races. Orandor and Vahlada would represent the faeries, Skye and Odessa-Gadriel the elves, and so on. Then, once this had been accomplished, they would decide on what course of action to take in the final, greatest battle against the evil of their world.

"May I extend the welcome to this haven to you as well?"

There were very few people in the group who did not know that dry, sandy, and rather deep voice, and those who didn't were able to easily guess who it was, even before they had caught sight of him.

A dark shadow loomed behind Elowyn, seeming as if it were threatening to swallow her up, and then it seemed to have transformed into a tall, broad-shouldered figure that came to stand at her side, slightly behind her. The proud, chiseled features of his face were plainly vampyric – and royal, at that – and the cool gray eyes that looked across her to them were calm and faintly appraising, recognizing each.

Instantly, a ripple of hissing whispers and exclamations went through them—

"It's him!" "Jaedin of Sytherria!" "The Black Knight!" and, perhaps most painful of all: "What business can _he_ possibly have here?"

This last question immediately recalled to his mind the gravity of the deeds that marked his past, and he hastily averted his eyes to the ground, a muscle working in his jaw as he harshly clenched it. _They won't understand: not so soon,_ he told himself, firmly. _This is what you were expecting, and you'd be a fool to deny that. Give it time. _

_Time._

The newcomers' reaction to his presence, and so close to Elowyn, was what he thought he had prepared himself for, but something that gnawed at his soul and bit into his increasingly sensitive heart each time someone looked at him askance, or greeted him with open hostility. The fact that he had previously lived his life, acting upon what he believed was the truth, had no bearing on them. Here, it was irrelevant. Obviously, he would have to earn their trust – if that were at all possible.

Elowyn held out her hands, trying to placate her friends and kin.

"Please – wait!" she begged them. "I can't explain everything now, but – but you must believe me, you must trust me: Jaedin of Sytherria is our friend and ally. He no longer serves the Ebony Queen. I can't compel you to accept this, but it is true. I...I know it. He has kept me safe, all this time; he has brought me no harm. Together we passed through the Dark Realm's shadow, and stepped into the Light again on the other side. Without him, we would have already been destroyed."

"I can't ask you to forgive me," Jaedin murmured, in a low voice: still not quite meeting the eyes of a few of the faeries and elves. Arielle and Orlando, he saw, were looking at him with something akin to compassion; they knew that something in him had changed. They had witnessed his actions during the Battle for the Academy. They were aware of the alteration of his heart. Robbie, as well, was not glaring at him.

But the others...

He still couldn't raise his gaze to meet theirs.

So he looked at Elowyn – his beloved princess – instead. She returned his gaze with an ardent look of her own: her spring green, luminous eyes seemed to shimmer, and he knew that her throat was as painfully tightened as his own. He had never anticipated any of this, any of what he was about to say; he would never have anticipated that the mere thought of standing where he was, before an assemblage of rightfully angry and wary faeries and elves could even surface in his mind.

Shocking times indeed.

Finally, he dredged up from within the depths of his soul the power to talk again. He gestured feebly, half-heartedly, at them, knowing that he could not win their trust, and changed as he and his heart were, the White Realm would hate him yet.

"I can't compel you to forgive me, or trust me...or accept me. But your world is under attack, even now, and unless you fight against the darkness to save it, everything will be lost. And no one, not even the most powerful of you, will be able to recover it. My allegiance is now with Elowyn of Avalennon, and with any of those whom she names her friends and kindred. I have not harmed her; I will not harm her. I will not see her happiness destroyed by anything. Believe me, or don't believe me. The choice is one I leave to each one of you."

And with that, he took a slight step backwards and, his eyes never leaving Elowyn, bowed elegantly. Then he was gone: his black velvet cloak billowing in his wake.

Elowyn only became aware of the fact that she had been biting her lower lip when she tasted a trace of blood in her mouth. Hastily, she gestured to the group before her, indicating that they ought to join the others below.

"Please: we don't have much time," she said.

* * *

He was waiting for her when she was finally able to take leave of the thousands of assembled magic-using delegates that had been summoned to the Council.

As soon as it had been determined by the two of them that all those who had been Called had arrived, with the exception of one or two, he had taken his leave of her and made his exeunt, going down to the place where the Council itself was to be held to make certain that all was in readiness for that fateful event. The location they had chosen to hold the Council within was an amazing work of natural architecture, even in this oasis of sublime and extraordinary, untouched wonders. The hills here gave way to brilliant, sun-bleached white cliffs of limestone, below which lay a wide open, grassy space. Jaedin and Elowyn had decided that it would be ideal for a meeting of what would surely be hundreds of thousands of people.

Of course, some magical alterations had had to be made first.

Seating, composed of twelve individual sections of four-tiered, gracefully curved daises of white stone, now stood in a solemn ring around the canyon. And in the center of it all was the platform where the presiding Lord and Lady of the Council – the children of the Prophecy of World's End – would direct the proceedings.

The vampyre's far-seeing, sharp eyes of molten silver caught sight of her from a distance, but he heard her long before his sight had informed him of her presence.

Without a moment's pause, he leapt down off of the platform and quickly sprinted across the cool green turf to his princess. Suddenly, he sensed a disturbance in her usually buoyant and irrepressibly cheerful spirits and, before he had reached her, saw that there was a barely hidden shadow of sadness and disappointment in her lovely eyes. His heart screamed in agony of frustration and resentment, that his precious, beloved treasure should be so wounded by anything – living, dead, or otherwise – in the world.

Swiftly he closed the gap between them and swept her up into his arms, crushing her to him.

Elowyn buried her face in his chest, nearly disappearing against him as the stark darkness of his billowing black cloak swallowed her slender white figure whole. Jaedin held her close, resting his face against the top of her head and relishing the cool silkiness of her pale golden tresses as he inhaled the scent of Spring that was her. A shock of recollection went through his mind, and he jolted back to reality as if struck by an exceptionally powerful lightning bolt, hastily releasing her and stepping immediately back – but only a little bit.

His hands rested upon her waist: his touch light and gentle but still protective, possessive. A bit of a worried look etched onto his face, causing a slight line to form between his dark arching brows, as he contemplated her for a moment in silence.

"I – I'm sorry, my love," he said: stammering over the words in a way that – along with his manner – so amused her that she had to hide a smile and a laugh. "Are you all right? How is—"

Elowyn _did_ laugh then, however, and stood on tiptoe, reaching up so that she could get to his shoulders, using her hold on him then to pull him close to her once again. With a smile, she slid her hand up behind his neck and brought his face down to her level, and looked into his eyes.

"The different parties are organizing themselves now, as they've elected their representatives. The Lord Orandor and Lady Vahlada will, of course, speak for the White Realm – Prince Skye and Princess Odessa-Gadriel for the elves – what's-his-face from the Academy, the wizard, for his kind, etcetera, etcetera, et al. The only group that hasn't elected a speaker yet is..."

She trailed off, and Jaedin lifted a cool eyebrow, regarding her with calm cynicism.

"Let me guess," he said. "The vampyres?"

Elowyn nodded.

"How did you—"

But he made a brushing motion in the air, waving the question off before she had really even voiced it. He took her hand and began to walk in the direction of the podium; at its center was a tall pillar fashioned as a monolith, and at its foot where two stone chairs, over which the monument's shadow fell.

As they walked, he explained.

"How do I know? How could any vampyre _not_ know? It is a world-renowned fact that...my kind..."

And she took note of the slight clench of his jaw as he paused for a moment's space. Jaedin did not often speak of his vampyre heritage, and now that she was aware of his past in its entirety, she could understand why he would want to avoid the subject, and the memories it brought to him, as much as possible.

"The vampyres have long been a reclusive race, Elowyn," he told her. "Even before certain events transpired: events in which I took part and accept full blame for, that served to set the other Sentient races askance from us, we were never fully willing to endure much contact with the other races of the world. The elves we would sometimes accept as contemporaries...but they were more often our _rivals_. The vampyric people have always viewed themselves as _superior_ to other living beings. Our resilience to injury and the other unique attributes of the race caused us to become infuriatingly proud, and even when there _was_ a vampyric empire – thousands of years before _I_ was born..."

He added this with a quick glance at her as they walked.

"Well, suffice it to say that the last ruling emperor met a bad end: as did many of those such rulers before him, and so many fiascos occurred after his rule that the vampyres finally decided that abandoning the idea of having a single unified empire was a singularly _bad idea_. Ever since that time, they've been nomads and recluses. I find it fortunate – and surprising – that they've all heeded it; there must be at least six thousand of them here. But as for their potential _leaders_..."

He sighed and looked very grim.

"The Call would have reached them; there was no way that anyone, _anything_, could have ignored it...I just don't expect that they will attend. I knew him and his habits far too well; he was my teacher for many, many long years, and she was with him almost constantly. She and I didn't share a good relationship, I'm afraid..."

And Jaedin's full lips twisted in a bit of a wry smile as he handed her into her chair, simultaneously reaching up to rub the back of his neck with one gloved hand.

"But I doubt that _that_ would have stopped them from joining us here. From what I've gathered...well, it doesn't much matter now. The point _is_, I have the sneaking belief that the vampyres will be without their proper sovereigns to speak for them – however, they will join us. No matter what the past or present, they know that their future and our future are one and the same. And they will fight with us willingly."

Elowyn nodded, making a noise of deep sympathy.

She had been ravenously warmhearted towards history for as long as she could remember – in her life as Elowyn, Princess of Avalennon – and she knew much of what had happened in the vampyric past. It wasn't a surprise at all to her that the last _true_ royal sovereigns of the vampyric empire: actual royalty, and not just the governing officials elected to lead the separate clans, would possibly_ not_ show their faces at the Council.

"Jaedin."

He looked at her swiftly, noting the change in her tone and manner. Elowyn stood up, and moved to stand close to him, reaching for his hands.

"I'm not made of glass, you know."

He knew he looked guilty, and cursed himself for it. But he had hardly any time to dwell on this, thought, for she nestled up against him: reaching her arms around his waist to hold him as close as she possibly could. A bit of an understanding smile curved his lips, and he, without a word, held her tight. Elowyn listened carefully to the thudding of his heart. Its beat matched her own: had matched her own since the magical evening in which they had said their vows, and uttered the binding words of timeless, enduring love...

"Oh Jay..." she sighed. "I want for it to be over so badly. I'm so sick – so tired – so weary of it all. Of everything."

"Shh," he comforted, bringing her face up so that she was looking into his eyes, and he was looking into her eyes. Diamond-clear drops clung to her thick, dark eyelashes. She needed him to be her strength, her reassurance, her safety and compassion and love: perhaps now more than ever. There was so much to protect now...so much to guard and fight for, but he was willing to accept it now as well. He knew, in his heart, with an aching solemnity of the most dire, absolute truth, that he would never let it be otherwise.

So, softly, he placed a kiss first on her forehead, then on the tip of her nose, and lastly, on her lips: lingering there the longest, with a butterfly-light deftness. As they drew apart, she exhaled as he inhaled, exchanging air from her lungs to his. Jaedin's eyes slid slowly open, and he gently tangled his fingers in the cascade of golden curls of hair that flowed down past her waist.

"It will end, my princess," he said. "It will end."

They withdrew from one another then, moving to stand facing one another: hands firmly clasped. Deep, sparkling eyes of emerald green met eyes of shining, violet-tinged silver, and then Jaedin nodded: slowly, resolutely.

"But in order for it to end...it must first begin."

And they went forth – together – and summoned the assembled delegates.

The Council of World's End commenced.

* * *

Gavin let his mind drift momentarily and caught the glance of his cousin, Orlando. The two faery lords traded looks, a silent mental conversation transpiring between them.

_This is ridiculous._

_Ridiculous?! My, but you are the master of understatement! I'll wager that this name-count goes on for another two hours; they're not even finished with the elves' troupe yet..._

_I was talking about these seats. They're nice to look at and all, but I think I'm losing circulation in my back._

_Pathetic: that's what you are. _

_No, I'm simply getting too old for this._

Suddenly, Orlando made a strange noise through his nose, which he immediately turned into a muffled cough, hiding his mouth behind one hand. A few of the faeries nearby turned to glance at him: some looked annoyed, some concerned, and others – such as Gavin's father, Orandor himself...well...Gavin decided that it was best if he didn't cause any more outbursts of incredulousness.

_Thanks a whole whopping lot to **you**, Master Gavin._

_Ha! You deserved that._

_**Deserved** it? What in the black underworlds do you mean by 'you deserved that'? I've never heard such ogre-trash in my entire—_

_Remember when we were six, and you decided to let your Spryte loose after a frog that had gotten into the basilica, right during the Winter Solstice ceremony? And the said-Spryte chased the said-frog, which just happened to hop right up onto the aged cleric's boot-toe as he was giving the benediction, and the grand duchess of Yaslin decided to start shrieking like a banshee had gotten loose, and faint right there on the floor?_

_Well? Orlando?_

..._I try to forget such instances in my life._

_What are you two arguing over now? Your little discussion is almost visible in your eyes, and Father's left eyebrow has just gone way up. You know what **that** means._

Gavin looked across the row of faeries in his allotted section, to his sister; Ella gave a barely perceptible nod, directing his attention to Orandor, who sat with Vahlada only a few rows in front of him. He could just see his father's profile from where he sat, and what Ella had said was true – Orandor's famous highly arched eyebrows had angled to a degree that held an ominous degree of warning. He sat back in his seat and was silent, and motionless, for a few long moments, concentrating on the debate again.

Finally—

_I thought this was a closed-channel conversation, Elladine. How long have you been eavesdropping, and why?_

_Not to tell on you to Father, although one might say you would richly deserve it, _came her somewhat amused-sounding reply in his mind. _Ergo, brother mine, on pain of blackmail, I can listen to your conversations if I wish. Now aren't you paying the slightest bit attention to the meeting?_

Orlando's eyes of sapphire blue had focused on the two people: one arrayed entirely in white, her companion all in black, who were the presiding members of the Council. In the mental realm of sound they heard—

_With so many different peoples here, and so many different opinions, you can't doubt what is bound to happen as soon as everyone's been accounted for. They're all going to start arguing amongst themselves, wizard against elf, faery against changeling, while the Queen, blast her, mobilizes even more of her dreaded armies. She could have incinerated our lands from the Academy to Noela'Sarazon, and we wouldn't have the faintest idea of it._

_Well, Elowyn and the Dark One over there don't look too worried,_ Gavin thought acerbically, his gray eyes narrowing a bit as he turned to glance shortly at the pair. _She doesn't belong to him...though he certainly seems to think so. Something in the way they look at each other: in the way he stands by her, and she listens to his talking...I don't like it. It's as if she either doesn't have any idea of who he is, which I know can't be true...or worse, she's accepted it. Or is it worse? What is what?_

_There's too much to answer there,_ replied Orlando.

The faery prince then noted that his cousin's eyes had also focused on the young princess and her black-garbed companion.

_They were all there at the Battle for the Academy – Brendan, Salamaïre, Robbie...Elowyn, and him. I can't tell you what I saw in those last few moments...it's truly hard to explain. But...but try, if you can...try to accept what he says as truth. Much has changed in the world, whether we can see it or not. We have to believe, though._

* * *

Orlando was, it turned out, right in his speculation.

As soon as the roll call was complete, Elowyn and Jaedin apprised the Council of the latest actions of the Queen and her armies, revealing how they had, with much effort, managed to sabotage her every endeavor to attack within the last six months. And then, with everyone fully aware of the situation as of the most recent times, the arguments began...and dragged on...and dragged on...

"The wizards' collective moves for an intentional retreat, back to our fortresses – where we know the land and can be certain of our resources and strengths. Let the Queen seek us, if she is so intent on fighting her war!"

A dull wave of murmuring, which quickly grew to an unpleasant roar, washed over the assembly as many voices were raised in dissent and agreement. Curiously, Elowyn's family and nearest friends looked towards her, as she remained where she was in her seat beside the Dark Lord of Sytherria. As Lady of the Council, she would ostensibly have a say in this: perhaps the supreme word...

"Allow _her_ to make the journey to _you_?! You fool! Could you possibly not have any idea of what you are asking for?"

From the very back of the circle came a new voice: deep and velvety and masculine. A number of people shot to their feet, and everyone whirled to face the speaker. Two late arrivals stood in the space that opened up into the circle, allowing entry. Both were garbed in black robes, and one was significantly taller than his companion.

Elowyn slowly rose to her feet, staring at the pair, and felt Jaedin's arm transform from warm flesh into iron. Alarmed, she looked up to his profile, and saw that he was also looking at the two intensely.

The taller of the pair stepped forward, onto the grass pathway, and began to move towards the center of the circle: speaking as he went.

"Should the Queen bestir herself from her ancient black fortress in the darkest of all realms – which, I may assure you, she has _not_ in the hundreds of thousands of years that she has existed upon this earth – the outcome of such a movement would be one that you would eternally regret. There is a reason, ordained by the Three Themselves in Their sovereignty, that she has been rendered unable to leave the confines of the Dark Realm. Do not seek for the evil of which _you_ know little about."

The old wizard, Claudius, whom all of this had been addressed to sent a resentful stare towards the hooded and cloaked figure.

"And who are you, that you may speak of such great 'mysteries'?" he retorted.

Jaedin began to grin, as he stood still beside Elowyn.

A sound that might have passed for something like a laugh issued forth from the depths of the black hood, and the deep-voiced reply followed closely after—

"One of whom, also, you know very little, Spell-weaver. But no one can be put to blame for this. My consort and I are recluses of our own volition. However, as it is clear that decorum will be kept, at all costs...and out of respect for our presiding Council members..."

The hidden head moved in a slight nod beneath its hood.

"I will introduce myself, and my companion."

The two stood side-by-side in front of Elowyn and Jaedin – then, the smaller figure, who stood to the right, sank down in a graceful curtsey, while the taller one bowed low. As they straightened, the man's voice intoned, "May I present Her Royal Highness, Valwen Esètmarïndiél: Empress of Olyeandara, the Last Vampyric Citadel."

And then the more diminutive figure reached up with hands that were too slender and white and delicate to ever belong to a man, and drew back the hood that obscured the features of its owner.

A collective of gasps, whispers, and exclamations rippled across the Council as the features of a startlingly beautiful woman were revealed.

Lady Valwen, empress of a people long scattered throughout Evyrworld, was not a full-blooded vampyre: this much could be told by the absence of her race's characteristic pointed incisors. But she did have the typical cold, proud beauty and elegance of that all vampyres shared: long, silky, blue-black tresses, a perfect form and bearing, skin so white that it seemed to shine like the full moon, and eyes that were proven to be, as she and her companion approached the dais upon which the fulfillers of the prophecy stood, a riveting hue of liquid sapphire. She was very, very beautiful, and had an air of wisdom and grace about her that made Elowyn feel small and childish.

And yet, when the lady vampyre stood before the dark lord and his princess, she smiled softly and her features instantly became warm and kind.

"_Esna ïv'teresvartále siil ïv nyrhl-mirinas ær kalasthon Velya tyr désta na_," she said, her eyes flickering across the faces of the people around her.

Elowyn felt a jolt of slight surprise, and noticed, suddenly, that the woman's ears were pointed underneath the incredibly dark hair that fell down to her knees. As perfectly pronounced and easily spoken as the greeting had been – _May the blessings of the all wise and sovereign Three be upon you_ – it was impossible to miss the truth.

The empress of the vampyres was half-elven.

"And I am Morthalion: knight-errant of the Zhaled-anek-Vilyor, and co-ruler of the vampyric kingdoms. Well met, my old student."

The face of the enormously tall vampyre, who stood level with Jaedin, remained hidden by the hood that he wore, and he made no move to dispense with his cloak. But even though shadows hid his face, Elowyn could tell that those last words were spoken with a smile. Faintly, she could see the gleam of bright, unnaturally green eyes within the depths of the hood.

Then Lord Morthalion reached out a large square hand, gauntleted in black, and offered it to Jaedin. Her husband accepted the greeting, and afterward stepped back, a smile lighting his face.

"And the same to you, my old teacher!" he replied. "You don't know how glad I am that you've arrived! I was beginning to worry that you had not received our message."

"We may be self-imposed exiles, Jaedin Dragonmaster," said the Lady Valwen, with a wry little smile on her dark-red lips, "But we are far from unaware of the events that go on outside of our domain. I had to keep Morthalion and Veldoracxadon from flying off to single-handedly confront _and_ do battle with the cursed Dark Crone."

"It's true," came Lord Morthalion's deep, deep voice – amused – from within the depths of his hood. "Thank the Fates, Val has learnt to be the steadying force in our realm! But we have no time for that now; come, apprentice, introduce me to your bride."

Jaedin smiled down at Elowyn and reached for her hand, gathering it into his. He brushed a passionately loving kiss onto her knuckles and then informed his former teacher and the empress of the vampyres—

"Lord Morthalion, Empress, may I have the honour of presenting to you Princess Elowyn: birth-daughter of Diarnan and Lhanallis, adopted-daughter of the Lord Orandor and Lady Vahlada...and the Child of Prophecy?"

Both Lord Morthalion and Lady Valwen abruptly paid her homage of uttermost respect. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head, while she lowered into an infinitely graceful curtsey, also lowering her face to the ground. Elowyn felt very much self-effaced by these two legendary and powerful figures showing her such reverence, but she had no time to beg them to cease; for they stood and looked upon her fully then.

"My lady," Lord Morthalion said, in a gravely respectful tone. "Long have we been told tales of the Child of Prophecy, the herald of the Dark Realm's doom. The race of the vampyres is proud to fight for our world against this great evil, at your side."

Then he turned to Jaedin again.

"We have mustered our forces – every last assassin, marksmen, archer, and shadow-wielder has heeded the summons. We are ready to fight."

"Good," Jaedin said. Quickly, he glanced over his shoulder, taking note of the stirring crowd of people behind them. The rest of the Council was thrumming with a barely-concealed curiosity and impatience. They could not afford to stand about and discuss matters at hand any longer. The Council must be brought to a decision. The last defense of the world had to be formed.

He gestured for his former teacher and the vampyric empress to follow him, and be seated within the council seating area.

"Have you held conference with the rest of the Circle?"

Lord Morthalion's cloaked head nodded, slowly.

"Yes; they shall all be with us by nightfall. Nikolas is the furthest from this place, and thus it took me much time and effort to find him...but he will be here, along with the rest of them."

"Very well," Jaedin replied. "Now, let us inform the Council of this latest good news."

The two vampyres went to their seats, and Jaedin escorted Elowyn back to the dais. As they walked, she asked him, one dark brown eyebrow quirking—

"Jaedin...the Circle? Of whom do you speak?"

"The Circle of Mages, Elowyn," her husband replied. "The most powerful magic-wielders in the world, both unallied to the White Realm and allied; of this world, and not. They will fight with us."

Then he guided her to her seat, and stood before the Council: addressing all.

"Throughout the ages, the magic-wielding races of this world have warred and bickered amongst themselves, unable to reconcile the vast differences of kind and opinion that each person holds – yet we have also shown a remarkable resilience in times of trouble, and an inborn ability to unite into one unbreakable force. Now is the time when we must again take up arms together, and move as one being. We do not have time to debate this war any further – the Queen and her dark army march upon the lands of our world even as we speak. We cannot afford to delay."

When he paused, a legion of dissenting voices went up.

He quelled them with a motion.

"Also through the ages of this world, I have been a dire and hated force against you. I have fought you at every turn; I have destroyed and ruined both living and inanimate. I fought for the Queen, and none other. But now this has changed – she destroyed my family, laying the blame to you, the White Realm, and I believed her tales of your evilness for long. Now I know the truth...and it is the truth that I shall now fight for! I stand before you and lay down my gauntlet: let any man who desires the triumph of good over evil step forward, and raise arms with me! I, Jaedin DragonMaster of Sytherria, Dark Lord of the Western Desert, call upon every last soul of you – stand with me, and go with me to war!"

The dull roar of voices intensified; Elowyn gripped the armrests of her chair, and felt herself grow cold. Her eyes had widened, and she could not breathe steadily.

Still, Jaedin went on, inexorably.

"I speak to you now in the Tongue of Truth, falsifiable by no one and nothing! I am the Dark One, the second Child of Prophecy, the dark side to Elowyn's Light!"

_One raven's feather,_

_Black as the night;_

_A single white opal,_

_Shedding beams of its light;_

_A tongue of red flame,_

_Burning brightly and true;_

_A teardrop of crystal,_

_Purest in hue._

_All bound together in one great crest,_

_But two must join above all the rest._

_Raven and white are destined to blend – _

_With light, good shall prosper,_

_And evil will end._

_Ris'n from time long before,_

_The Dark One shall be first to open the door:_

_Sharing a mark with she who is of Light,_

_To whom he is bound by all that is right._

_By this they shall be known,_

_And naught else that will come –_

_Lovers, rescuers, they shall be, when all else is flown._

"_We fight TO WIN_!"

From his seat next to his fair half-elven wife, Lord Morthalion watched as the Council broke into unanimous, fervent concurrence and approval of their new ally's words: knowing that he spoke the truth. One who spoke in the Tongue of Truth could not lie. Such had been the gift of the Three, upon the creation of Evyrworld – one who spoke the Tongue of Truth was bound by Their sacred, divine power, to speak only the truth. Jaedin of Sytherria was now among them, one of them, an ally and friend. The former enmity between him and the White Realm was dissolved.

"The flame in the hearts of a few will spread to others...if it is but caught in the path of that fire."

Beside him, Valwen nodded.

"She will know true terror now."

_We all shall._

* * *

A/N: And I owe a monumental thank-you-very-much to my friend, Shadow the Gatekeeper: the Last Knight of the Rose, for Lord M.'s line up there - 'tis a quote he let me borrow. Thanks, my friend! Anywho. Introductions to new characters are due in as well, along with the new chapters - already we have Morthalion and Valwen, and of course, this "Nikolas" person and the Circle of Mages. As to who those fellows are...well, you'll soon find out. As for now though, do us a favor and drop a review or two...


	42. Chapter ThirtyEight

Chapter Thirty-Eight –

A Meeting of the Circle of Mages:

Familial Concerns,

Sudden Introductions,

and

Lord Shadowstrike's Penchant for Explosive Materials

Night fell slowly over the mysterious and beautiful desert oasis that no one in the world had ever previously known of. The air had long since grown pleasantly cool, its breezes soft and soothing and fragranced with the faint nuances of many exotic blossoms, and the sky was painted in a gorgeous mélange of smoky colours.

Though it was a mere hour 'til midnight, the sun had only just died to a ruddy ember in the furthest reaches of the horizon – the globe itself had long since been obscured by the far-off mountainous desert hills, yet its deep golden-crimson colour remained, glowing steadily. Immediately above it was a deep ginger band, and beyond that, lavender, and then sapphire blue, and finally, a star-studded, velvety black. The crescent moon hung in her place, slowly advancing from the opposite side of the sky: following in the path of the sun.

In the valley at the center of the pristine oasis now lay an immense encampment.

There were hundreds of tents – all white in colour, with golden pennants waving at their pointed tops – and what had once been no more than a silent, uninhabited meadow now sparkled with the light of many torches and fires.

And these were very clearly attended to by some very unusual folk, and _magical folk_, at that, for the fires themselves were not of any sort of uniform colour. Instead of burning bright orange, yellow, and red, these fires alternated in other hues, filling the twilight darkness with a myriad of coloured flames: deep emerald green, sharp blue, rich amethyst, and more.

No ordinary people could create such fires, and, indeed, these were no ordinary people.

The day had been long and wearying; there had been many hours of debate and council, but now the people of the White Realm had at last united in purpose and method, and were at peace with one another. They could not afford to argue amongst themselves while the fate of everything in their world was held in precarious balance: Lord Jaedin's words had convinced them of that. He, who had been the Dark Lord of Sytherria and also the former greatest enemy of the Light in the world…if _he_ could see what was at stake here, and tell them of their danger, and beg them to unite and cease their petty arguments…it was enough. And now they would go to war.

On the very morrow, the march to the Dark Gate would begin.

Within the valley, the camp revealed itself to be a neatly organized and dignified impromptu dwelling place, rather than a slapdash conglomeration of many vastly different and confused magical beings.

It was true that they were all still somewhat mystified as to how they had been brought to this strange but wonderful place. That they had been summoned, they knew, but how they had all been taken from their homes and brought here was more than any one of them, even the oldest and wisest among them, could comprehend or explain. It was a deeper kind of magic than they had ever dealt with, yet.

The two Children of the Prophecy – she who was of the Light and he who was the Dark One – seemed to know more about it than anyone else, but they had, as of late, been remarkably difficult to catch sight of for more than a moment or two…and no one had been able to corner either of them for questioning.

It was very odd.

The magical beings, however, knew that just as they had no time to argue amongst themselves about how the war against the evil in their world ought to be fought, they also could not spare a moment questioning everything they saw, heard, experienced, or felt. And so, after a little while, the questions ebbed, and the camp was made.

Among the most withdrawn and elusive races of Evyrworld was the vampyre people. Excepting the extremely widely-traveled and knowledgeable, there was almost no one who could boast of having spoken even so much as two words with one such creature. Truth to be told, however, the vampyres were not the only enigmatic citizens of the White Realm, for there was also a sect of people within the elven race who were quite hard to find.

The dark elves.

Many people often confused the dark elves with their sometimes sinister contemporaries, the drow, but the dark elves of Evyrworld were much different in looks and temperament from these. In contrast to the dark complexions, pale hair, and pale eyes of the drow, the dark elves were pale of complexion, though dark of hair and eye. Dark elves were often assumed to be vampyres because of their immediate appearance – at first glance – but a closer look would tell an onlooker that it was the dark elves who had the pointy-tipped ears, and the vampyres who had the sharply-pointed incisors.

The dark elves were slightly more sociable and easily found than the vampyres, and their interests mostly lay in the arts of mining, jewel-craft, and weapon-making. Because of this, the dark elves often shared a close kinship with the dwarves, and were more likely to be seen in their company than in that of their fellow elves. They were also expert scouts and spies: keen-eyed and able to move with such stealth and grace that no one, not even the most adroit and skillful sentry could spot them – until it was too late.

As a result, the lord of the dark elves had put forth the proposition that his following ought to place themselves in a ring about the rest of the encampment. The dark elves could operate and move about effortlessly, and successfully, in the darkness, for it was their element. They were many, and were willing to risk putting themselves nearest to the world beyond the camp.

This agreed upon, the inner circles of the encampment were put together. The dwarves would be allotted a goodly space for their movable forges and kilns, so that they could construct the weaponry and assault equipment that the upcoming battle would require. They were placed on the westernmost side of the camp. The elves and the faeries – along with the few magic-wielding mortals who were among them – took their place on the east side, while the vampyres withdrew to the north side.

As co-rulers of the vampyric empire, Lord Morthalion and Lady Valwen were truly figures of legend, as Elowyn herself had recognized within her mind in the Council earlier that day. Already it was known throughout the camp that _he_ had once been Lord Jaedin's teacher, which was evidence enough of his immense age and experience – and she, it was said, was almost of an age with the former Dark Lord of Sytherria. The two had governed over their quietly withdrawn realm for many thousands of years, never once bestirring themselves to become involved with affairs outside of their lands or to make trouble with those who surrounded them. The vampyric empire had once been known for its arrogance and its propensity for conquest and strife…

But no more.

Time had changed that realm.

Lady Valwen was a surprisingly sociable creature, however, in spite of her half-vampyric heritage. She was, as everyone soon learned, a healer of a caliber that was remarkable even among the innate magic-wielding denizens of the White Realm.

Lord Morthalion was a full-blooded vampyre, and _he_ was a much more mysterious and cagey figure. He was never once seen without his cloak and hood in that entire day, and he tended to disappear abruptly whenever anyone looked his way for too long. Speculations as to why he perpetually wore his black-velvet disguise were put forward, but no one among the gossipers ever summoned up the bravery to seek a direct answer of him. He was often in conference with Lord Jaedin and the princess Elowyn during the remainder of the day.

As the hour of midnight drew near, still preparations for the journey to the Dark Gate went on…

Elowyn stirred slightly in her husband's light but possessive embrace, her green eyes distant and warm with memory. Jaedin's own expression was distant, but harder and more determined, as he continued to gently run his ungloved fingers through her silky golden locks. Their minds dwelt in separate spheres of the world now – hers in the past, and his in the future – but they were together, and were, thus, happy.

_She remembered that morning all so well. _

_The first frost had laced the ground that morning, covering every single branch, every single fallen leaf and creeping vine in the forest – and it was cold. It had been dawn when she had awakened, and through the trees a dim silvery-grey light had filtered. Everything was in a haze. _

_She remembered how she had turned over slightly in the arms of her immortal beloved, and rubbed her face against his black-velvet chest, reassured and contented by his warmth, the sound of his breathing, and his heartbeat._

_'So very, very happy…'_

_Then, very faintly at first, then more and more, she became aware of an awful, twisting and churning feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was very unpleasant, and it reminded her of a time, long ago, when she had visited her older sister, Elladine, and her family at their castle. Robbie – Elladine's oldest child and Elowyn's 'nephew' – had fallen sick with the flu, and the malady had passed onto his sisters, Joanna and Echo, and then Elowyn herself in rapid succession. Her stomach began to flip-flop, and she froze._

_'Oh Fates…I'm going to…I'm going to…'_

_And in the next instant, Jaedin had found himself deprived of his princess – who also happened to be his primary source of warmth on that cold morning – as she scrambled to her feet and lurched away, disappearing hastily behind some nearby bushes. _

_"Elowyn!" he called after her, getting up and following behind in an instant. She did not reply, and his worry intensified. He stepped towards the bushes, and heard her croak—_

_"It's…" She gasped raggedly, and continued, still hoarse, "It's alright, Jaedin. I just…I…my stomach…no; don't come over here; believe me, you don't want to…"_

_But he did, and then he was at her side again, moving with lightning fast reflexes. She was standing: bent almost double, one hand resting flat against the rough bark of the tree she stood beside. Her beautiful golden tresses were mussed and wild, hanging over her face and obscuring her features from him, but he could tell by the hue of her slender hand that she was very pale. She had been sick. _

_"Oh—" _

_And she whimpered, suddenly, and flung out a hand at him._

_"Jay—get back while you can; I think I'm going to—"_

_He stepped hastily to her side and caught her about the waist as she lurched forward again with an almost convulsive gag; when the very last traces of everything that had been in her stomach had been purged from her, she inhaled, shuddering, and fell limply back against him, leaning fully into him. _

_Jaedin carefully knelt, lowering her with him, and then gathered her into his arms, holding her against his chest as she clung to his shirt and began to sob. She was far from small, being a full-blooded faery, but she was almost as tiny as a child next to him. He cradled her in his arms, rocking her gently back and forth as she continued to weep – messily and unapologetically, with lots of sniffling and hiccupping – and then, finally, when her tears had abated, he reached out and tenderly wiped them from her face. Elowyn's eyes were large and frightened as she looked up at him, and her skin was strangely pale._

_"Jay," she said. "I'm…I don't…I don't understand. I've not been sick in years now…I can't have gotten anything, because we haven't been around anyone…but I feel so awful…"_

_"Shh," he told her, laying his face alongside hers and allowing her to muffle her unsteady breathing against the collar of his shirt. "Shh. It's alright…you're alright; there's nothing wrong with you."_

_There **couldn't** be; not **now**…_

_He stood, lifting her with him, and then he carried her back to where they had rested the night before. At a few words from him, a blanket and several pillows appeared, which he magically lifted and placed in the hollow of the tree's roots, creating a makeshift bowl-shaped seat of sorts. He placed her down on the blanket, settling her against the pillows, and drew both her cloak and his over her. _

_Then he stood straight again, and looked down upon her. _

_"Wait here," he commanded, with gentle but firm authority. "I shall return in a moment."_

_She did as she was told, feeling suddenly weak as a butterfly freshly emerged from its chrysalis, and waited: watching him as he strode off into the trees. Her eyes slipped closed without her having realized it, and it seemed that it was only a split second later when he returned, and was suddenly placing a steaming hot mug of something into her hands, ordering her—_

_"Drink it."_

_The drink was very hot and rather bitter, with a definite sharp mint edge; she swallowed it down, in spite of its bitterness, and curled into his arms as the turbulence in her stomach began to subside. Jaedin's fingers ran through her hair, carefully, and his chin rested familiarly atop the crown of her skull. They remained in silence for a moment, and then he said, softly, "I can't find any trace of sickness on you, Elowyn – something is different, something has changed – but I can't tell what. You're not ill, though…not in any way that I've encountered before."_

_"Hm," she replied, feeling very tired and cross, suddenly. _

_This was not the way she had wanted her morning to start; not at all. _

_She was quiet for several moments longer then, and in the very back of her mind, she sent a tendril of searching thought into her tangible self, absentmindedly looking for what it was that had caused her body to so violently rebel against her, and in such an unpleasant way. _

_And then, suddenly, she felt – she knew – exactly what it was. Her eyes flared wide and she grabbed a hold of her husband's arms, looking up at him abruptly. The Dark Lord of Sytherria's grey eyes were filled with concern and surprise as he stared down at her. _

_"Elowyn, love, what's wrong?" he asked her, reaching out to touch her face with one hand. "You are so pale – are you alright? Do you feel ill again?"_

_   
She shook her head hastily, tightening her grip on him. _

_"No, Jaedin; no!" she said. "I know what…I felt…I know what it is. Oh Fates – Jaedin…" _

She smiled again now, remembering the moment.

It had been an unpleasant occurrence at the time…but now it was a wonderful memory: a memory that held both the warmth of the past, and the promise of the future.

Wrapping one arm about herself, she snuggled closer into her love's arms, and felt him shift slightly to accommodate her. She reached up with one hand and ran her fingertips lightly over his jaw line, letting them come to rest just below the fullness of his lower lip, tickling against his skin. She sensed that he had returned to reality from whatever realm of thought his mind had been traversing just then, and heard a low chuckle rumble deep in his chest. He turned his face to the side, and pressed his lips to her forehead, just below her hairline, and she closed her eyes.

What happiness she had found with her dark lord…

"You know, my love," he commented, in a low voice. "I am very much aware of the fact that you are, undoubtedly, entirely worth every struggle that I might have to put myself through in order to be with you…but I find myself increasingly nervous at the thought of confronting your family, and speaking to them on the nature of my relationship with you. Does the White Realm Council have…"

And suddenly he hesitated, unwilling to speak the words, and yet knowing that he had to. A horrible new reality had dawned on him: a reality that sent chills up and down his back and caused his heart to flinch within him. In a low, unsteady voice, he asked her, then—

"Do they…can they sanction enforced marriage annulments?"

Elowyn's eyes shot wide open and she sat up, drawing away from him slightly. "No!" she said, startled but also worried. "Never! They can't take me away from you – not after all that has happened!"

"But _can_ they, Elowyn?" he asked, grimly.

"I…"

She balked.

"No…I've never heard of a couple – faery, changeling, elf, or other – ever having been forced to part ways by the Council. It's simply never been done."

Quickly, but silent, he reached out and drew her back into his arms again, and she clung to him desperately. The White Realm had been willing enough to accept him as an ally, but only after he had invoked the solemn and enormous power of the Tongue of Truth – would they be as willing to accept his bond to his princess? He feared to think of what could befall them after the battle against the Dark Realm.

If the world did not end, what was there to stop the Council from forcing him to rescind his marriage vows to the Princess Elowyn? No one of the White Realm would happily acknowledge him as her husband._ But… _he thought, then, as they held one another in fearful silence. _It's too late for that now. It's too late._

_They don't know._

Suddenly, they both became aware of a new presence within the temple, and withdrew from one another hastily. Jaedin stretched forth his powers and sought out the identity of the person who had now joined them within the colossal structure, and then he turned to Elowyn, exhaling a soft breath of relief.

"Never fear, my sweetest," he told her, quietly. "It is naught but Lord Morthalion. He'll not question us or interfere. In fact, I believe that he is here with important information for us. Come, dear."

He stood, black robes falling into place about him, and she took his outstretched hand.

Together, they stepped forth from the room they shared, and went forth into the main audience chamber of the temple. There, they did find Lord Morthalion. Elowyn kept close to her husband's tall, reassuring shadow, for though she knew the legendary vampyre-ruler to be a friend, she was yet unnerved by his looming, black-cloaked presence. Lord Morthalion bowed slightly as they approached, and the two returned his salute.

"What news do you bring us, my friend?" Jaedin inquired.

The intimidating older vampyre's head nodded slightly to one side beneath its hood, in acknowledgment of these words, and then his deep, resonant voice broke into the silence. His tone was soft, but also authoritative and even slightly grim, sending a shaft of unease into Elowyn's heart.

"The other four have arrived," was his succinct reply. "The Circle of Mages is now complete."

Elowyn shivered, drawing the folds of her thick wine-red velvet cloak about her, and gripped her husband's hand more tightly as he led her along after him, finding a path in the darkness of the night-draped camp. All around her were the dim large, white forms of the tents that housed the hundreds of magical beings that had been Summoned to the Council of World's End, but so black was the night that she could only just see them.

Jaedin strode purposefully, confidently, and grimly along – following after Lord Morthalion, who was leading them – and she was glad that he possessed the eyesight and heightened senses of the vampyres, for she would have lost herself in the dark alone.

The night was cold, and it only served to remind her of what was yet to be.

In another few moments, an impressive scarlet tent – standing out sharply among the white structures that surrounded it – loomed before them, lit from within by many torches. Elowyn made out the forms of at least seven armed guards standing before its entrance; all of them were very heavily armed, and all of them were vampyres.

Without a word, they allowed Lord Morthalion to pass by, with Jaedin and Elowyn still trailing in his wake, and in seconds they were filing one by one into the tent itself. Elowyn's eyes took a moment to adjust to the amber-toned light of the torches that were within the tent, and then she shrunk back slightly against her husband's arm…for before her stood four of the most striking, magnificent, and yet daunting masculine figures that she had ever seen. Lord Morthalion stepped forward, and they came to a halt.

Elowyn let her eyes travel across the features and forms of the four men – her sense of curiosity overwhelming her shyness – and took in the sight that was before her.

All four of the mages, for this was what she assumed they were, wore the same black robes that Lord Morthalion and her husband wore, but here their resemblances to one another ended. No four men could be more different.

"My friends," Lord Morthalion then said, after a brief span of silence. "May I present to you Jaedin, Lord of Sytherria, whom you already know…and Elowyn, Princess of Avalennon?"

Instantly, the eyes of the four focused on her intensely, and Elowyn took control of her emotions, and stood straight and bold at her husband's side, meeting their eyes evenly.

"And, milord and milady," continued Lord Morthalion. "May I present the remaining four members of the Circle of Mages?"

He gestured to the first man with a wave of one gloved hand.

"Lord Lucius Drake."

This mage was exactly as all the stories about him generally described his appearance. He was tall and very, very handsome, in a cold and aloof manner. He was a fae: not faery, not vampyre, nor elf or changeling, but a descendant of all three…and then some, most likely. This was reflected in his proud, noble, and elegant bearing, and his perfect, sleek features. His hair was a very pale blond – almost silvery – and it fell long and somewhat spiky, like a mane of sorts, to his shoulders. His eyes were of two different colours: one was emerald green, and the other was cerulean blue. His gaze bent itself towards her so coolly and so formally that she felt very small and childlike in his presence, though she knew that he was an ally, and a friend.

Lord Lucius Drake.

The Green Mage.

"Prince Erik Shadowrose, of Kryslora."

This was a man, and a name, altogether unfamiliar in person to Elowyn, though she knew of his story and his country.

Erik Shadowrose was tall and well-formed, like the other mages, and he too, of course, wore all black. He had an air of magic about him, which served to tell Elowyn that he had magical blood in his veins – he was an enchanter, and a _powerful_ enchanter, at that. He was very pale, as if he spent much of his time indoors, and his hair was very dark brown, almost black. He wore it cropped short, reaching just to the high collar of his black velvet cloak, and a few wavy strands of it had managed to fall onto his forehead. He also was very handsome and regal, with an elegant bearing; his eyes were a sharp, clear blue, and the right half of his face was crisscrossed with the faint remainders of old scars.

Prince Erik Shadowrose.

The Gold Mage.

"Prince Mordred Andaríon."

Elowyn knew of this mage as well, for he was the crown-prince and heir apparent of the changeling kingdom; in the past, he had often frequented the grounds of Avalennon when court was being held. Mordred was lightly tanned in complexion, with a slight golden tint to his skin, and his eyes were a incisive yellow-green; his shoulder-length hair was naturally golden-brown, she knew, but he had long-since dyed it to an unmitigated sable hue, which oddly complimented his overall appearance. He had an air of mischief and slyness about him, and she knew him to be an enigmatic, free-spirited individual who had only found his happiness, finally, in a marriage to a mortal princess.

Prince Mordred Andaríon.

The White Mage.

"King Nikolas Thraantapolis XVIII, of the Middle Kingdom."

Elowyn was also familiar with the mortal king, who ruled over part of the enormous mortal empire. She had been well aware for a long time that he was not only a king, but also a mage, and a powerful one at that, and that he had had many dealings with the magical world because of both this fact and his connection to the elves – through a marriage to a half-elven princess. He was a kind and warm-hearted person, approachable in a way that most of his fellow mages weren't; he had looked as if he had wanted to smile at her upon her entrance with her husband into the tent, but the solemnity of the situation had prevented such friendly familiarities. There was a sort of gentle sadness about him, though his face was kind and very handsome: his features were strong and clear-defined, and his eyes were a vivid shade of sapphire-blue, while his skin was pale and his hair was jet-black. On the right side of his face, he wore a shiny silver mask that looked almost skeletal in the flickering candlelight.

The mages of Evyrworld, Elowyn had observed long ago and now saw as truth before her very eyes, mages were men who were possessed with great power—but this was power that came at a great price. It was a blessing and a curse: a reassurance, and _a danger_.

But…

But Lord Morthalion had said that there was a _Circle of Mages_…and this implied that he _and_ Jaedin were also parts of this circle, if she presumed correctly.

She glanced up at her husband, for affirmation, and Jaedin gave a nod of his head that was only just perceptible to her.

Lord Morthalion, she guessed easily enough, was the Black Mage…and Jaedin…she didn't know which colour was his. She intended to ask him about this, however.

Meanwhile, though, she turned back to the other men, and acknowledged them with a graceful, small curtsey.

"I salute you, my lords," she said. "Your presence here is a blessing and a reassurance."

"Nay," came the reply, from Nikolas, who stepped forward: his bright blue eyes scanning across her young face without the slightest hint of incredulity. "It is we who must say that your presence is a blessing and a reassurance to us. Now, after so many years, we may at last look forward to the destruction of the realm that has for so long been the bane of our lives. You are more powerful than they yet know, Princess Elowyn – and because of you, and Lord Jaedin…we have hope now. We are here…"

And he smiled, mysteriously and roguishly.

"We are here merely for…for _backup_, shall we say."

At that, the other mages laughed, appreciatively.

Lord Morthalion then made a gesture with one large gloved hand, and a semi-circle of chairs and a long rectangular table appeared before them. Each person present fell silent at his movement, and then he commanded—

"Let us be seated; we have precious little time, and none that can be wasted. We must chart out our plan here and now, while we still have the luxury of doing so."

"Unplanned campaigns are scarcely amusing work," commented Jaedin, as he escorted Elowyn to her seat, and placed himself next to her. His hand never once left hers, which she was glad of. Though she was the Star-Maiden and the Lady of the Fates, no one yet knew this, and she was still accustoming herself to the idea of her newly revealed true identity. Even after so many months, she was yet shocked when she found that she could manipulate matter at will, transport herself from place to place with a mere thought, and defeat entire armies with a wave of her hand. The armies that awaited them within the Dark Realm, however…_those_ would be another matter entirely…

_Not so easily dealt with…_ she thought, and concealed her shudder.

Meanwhile—

"Indeed. I sincerely hope that you didn't neglect to bring your ballistics charts, your Highness, Prince Mordred," said Lord Lucius, as he seated himself across the circle from Jaedin and Elowyn.

The changeling prince smiled dryly, and replied—

"My dear friend Lucius, I make it a solemn point in my life to never forget anything! It would be simply inexcusable – much like your sense of humor, at a time like this. Wouldn't you agree?"

Prince Erik shook his head, with a wry but amused look, while Jaedin, Morthalion, and Nikolas chuckled softly at the familiar banter between the two. Then the Black Mage summoned everyone's attention back to the meeting at hand. He stood up in his chair and reached forward, spreading out several well-worn and detailed maps of the lands that were within Evyrworld, drawing their attention to the enormous sand-coloured space that was, they all well knew, Sytherria itself.

"Lord Jaedin has informed me," he said: his deep voice resonant and somewhat strange-sounding within his hood, Elowyn thought now – it was as if he was speaking from behind a sheet of metal, or something of that sort. "That as of late, the Dark Gates have shown within themselves a remarkable propensity for movement. Now, this was not unusual before, as is known to those of us who have studied the Dark Realm and even frequented it ourselves in times past. However, in most recent times, the Dark Gates have moved further and more quickly than ever, which can only serve to tell us a very few things."

The odd, seemingly glowing green eyes in the hood shifted, and turned towards Jaedin.

"She knows that she has lost her Dark Knight," the Black Mage continued. "She knows, and she fears what this means, for she is as much aware of the Prophecy of World's End as we are. She is taking all precaution to keep anyone from getting into her realm – and even seeing the way to get into her realm. If we move in haste, we may be able to usher our forces through in enough time to confront her openly."

"What are you proposing, Morthalion?" questioned Lucius, dryly. "That we go into the Dark Realm itself and meet her in battle on her own turf – which she knows infinitely better than any of us ever will? We six may be the most powerful magic-wielders on the face of this green earth, my friend…but I _doubt_ that we can match her in combat within the lands that are now exclusively hers."

"There isn't any choice, Lucius," Jaedin said, interposing with quiet firmness. "A month ago, I might have agreed with you, and argued on your side. But now…"

He sighed.

"Now, it is no such case. She knows that her defeat is imminent – and with such knowledge, she has become very much like a wounded animal that has been rounded into a corner. She will strike back at us with whatever force she can, trying to injure us as much as she can before she and her minions are banished to the Void – she will aim to hurt us as greatly as possible, and she will not care if the accomplishment of her wishes also means the desolation and death of our world."

"It is our aim to protect the mortals," Lucius said, and nodded. "I understand."

There was a long moment of silence, and then Prince Erik stood up, and slid the map across the table to himself, glancing over it with unreadable eyes. A line appeared between his dark brows, and his lips pursed; then he looked up, the light catching on his startling blue orbs so that they seemed to turn almost white.

"So," he said, in a mesmerizing, melodic and rich baritone voice. "We shall meet her on her own turf…but what then, my lords? How shall we go about fighting her? The Black City is said to be the most invincible of fortresses – I have heard rumors in my own lands, through our lore, of the Watchmen she keeps there as her slaves, who may report to her everything that goes on within the city walls at an instant. She has magicked that black heap of stone with more of her evilness than can be described in words."

"This I am well aware of," Jaedin replied. "Our plan of attack will have to be multi-level."

He glanced shortly at Mordred.

"And speaking of your explosives knowledge, Lord Shadowstrike – we shall soon have need of it."

Mordred's yellow-green eyes darkened with sinister pleasure.

"I would be glad to be of help."

Nikolas, Lucius, and Erik exchanged looks, and then Lucius commented—

"Oh, _marvelous_. I _do_ so enjoy a good fireworks show."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the brevity of this chapter, but I hope you recognize/enjoy the characters presented here. Some are new, and some I believe a few of you may recognize. They're an interesting bunch, my Circle of Mages. Oh…cast list goes along with that too.

Lucius Drake: I'm not entirely sure about this casting yet, but I think of him as kind of looking like Jareth, the Goblin King, from Labyrinth. A cross between him, I suppose, then, and Alan Rickman as Severus Snape, perhaps… (purrrrrrr)

Lord Morthalion: (drumroll please…oh, the suspense! Oh, the mystery! Oh…the pent-up dramatics! Tsk tsk, Kates, eh? Heh…) Playing the roll of our infamous and intimidating Black Mage, is none other than the yummy-licious Billy Zane. Under a lot of makeup, a Nazgul costume, and a wig, of course. (Kates snickers)

Mordred Andaríon: Joaquin Phoenix. 'Nuff said.

Nikolas Thraantapolis: Gerard Butler. My gorgeous hunk of Scottish goodness!

Erik Shadowrose: (hehehehehe) If any of you have read my phic _Le Fantôme et la Belle_, you will recognize Erik, who is played by…don't shoot me, I couldn't resist…Gerard Butler. Again. He and Nikolas look a lot different though, as far as bearing, hair, etc.

And Jaedin: Tom Hardy, as Shinzon.

New chapters to follow soon…hopefully…but you'll have to pardon me if I don't update for some spaces, 'cuz I'm running myself mad between my increasingly frustrating college courses (thank goodness fall semester is almost over! YES!!!) and my new job. STARBUCKS ROCKS. That's all I have to say. (Kates grins.) I love my job.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Now, here's hugs and enchanted roses to all of you dahlings…and do drop me a note again sometime!


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